PART THREE

1890-1955

## CHAPTER 16

THE BEGINNINGS OF THE ART NOUVEAU: VICTOR HORTA

THE two preceding chapters, in entering the nineties, crossed what is perhaps the major historical frontier within the century and a half covered by this book. The skyscrapers of Sullivan and the early houses of Wright and Voysey—despite Voysey’s own disavowal of modernism—are among the first major manifestations of the period of architectural history that extends down to and includes our own time. The contemporaries of these men who were the new leaders on the Continent in the nineties had as sharp a sense of the novelty of the innovations they were making as did Sullivan or Wright, and the most characteristic stylistic formulation of this decade in Europe was appropriately known from an early date[356] as ‘Art Nouveau’. Before discussing the Art Nouveau itself, two related developments that precede it must be considered at least briefly. In France, various feats of metal construction of the sixties, seventies, and eighties had prepared the way for the Art Nouveau on the technical side, and these have, moreover, considerable intrinsic interest in their own right. English innovations in decorative art of the eighties and nineties are accepted by most historians as providing one of the most important immediate sources of the Art Nouveau,[357] and English architecture and architectural theory of the later decades of the nineteenth century certainly offered a generic stimulus to Europeans between 1890 and 1910 that was of vital consequence to subsequent developments.

By the early nineties advanced English work began to be widely known on the Continent. In 1888 the German architect Alexander Koch (1848-1911) started to publish annually his _Academy Architecture_ bringing current English production, and many significant projects also, to the attention of designers abroad. _L’Architecture moderne en Angleterre_ by the French architect Paul Sédille (1836-1900) appeared in Paris in 1890. The architect Hermann Muthesius (1861-1927), who was stationed at the German Embassy in London from 1896 to 1903 primarily to study low-cost housing, issued two folio volumes devoted to _Die englische Baukunst der Gegenwart_ in 1900-2, another on _Die neuere kirchliche Baukunst in England_ in 1902 and, in 1904-5, three thick quarto volumes on _Das englische Haus_. These richly illustrated books made much of the story of the development of English architecture in the second half of the century available in German long before it was pieced together by the English (see Chapters 12 and 15).

Voysey never worked abroad; but his houses, known internationally from an early date thanks to their publication in the _Studio_, an English periodical founded in 1893, were soon much studied on the Continent, and to a lesser extent in America. Voysey’s contemporaries Baillie Scott and Charles Rennie Mackintosh (1868-1928), however, both received foreign commissions as early as 1898; in fact, Mackintosh and his highly original ideas—he was no Voyseyan ‘reformer’ but a very bold innovator—received more support abroad than at home and were much more influential on the Continent than in Great Britain.

Historians of modern architecture have generally emphasized, and rightly, the special importance of the advances in metal construction[358] that were made in France in the later decades of the nineteenth century. The great name of the period is not that of an architect but of an engineer, Gustave Eiffel (1832-1923). At the International Exhibition of 1855 in Paris and again at the World’s Fair of 1893 in Chicago the vast metal-and-glass structures were masked externally by real or imitated masonry façades. Between these dates, however, came a series of French exhibition buildings that were increasingly bold in scale and frank in design; with the construction of most of them Eiffel was directly concerned. Yet his bridge over the Douro at Oporto in Portugal of 1876-7 quite overshadowed the Galerie des Machines that he and Krantz built for the Paris Exhibition of 1867, as his later Pont de Garabit of 1880-4 outclassed the pavilion that he designed for the Exhibition of 1878 and that portion of the Bon Marché Department Store on which he collaborated in 1876 with the younger Boileau. In the exhibition buildings the metalwork was completely exposed and in that of 1878[359] a serious attempt was made to develop appropriate embellishments, quite as Wyatt had done for Brunel at Paddington Station in London twenty-five years earlier. The rather tawdry result helps to explain why innovations in architectural design had so little public support in France in this period—a period, of course, when the bold innovations of the Impressionists were revolutionizing another art in Paris.

Beside Eiffel’s gallery, the Anglo-Japanese room[360] which Whistler and Godwin showed at this same exhibition must have seemed infinitely sophisticated, and even the Late Stuart detailing of the cement-brick front of Shaw’s Jury House most agreeably urbane. Such things might well have turned the attention of foreign architects towards England earlier than was generally the case. Sédille, one of the less tradition-bound French professionals of this period, did visit England in the eighties, publishing his book on current English architecture, which has just been mentioned, ten years before Muthesius’s. His selections, however, were not very discriminating, nor is there evidence that he profited much from what he saw. The Printemps department store of 1881-9, designed of course well before his trip, certainly shows no English influence.

For the Paris Exhibition of 1889[361] Eiffel early proposed and, in 1887, was commissioned to build the tremendous all-metal tower[362] which still dominates Paris (Plate 130A). As has been noted, this 984-foot edifice was, down to the erection of the Empire State Building in New York by Shreve, Lamb & Harmon more than forty years later, the tallest structure in the world. The Eiffel Tower, which appropriately carries its designer’s name, is no more a building in the ordinary sense than are his great bridges, however. Although scraping so much higher skies than did Holabird & Roche’s Tacoma Building in Chicago, which was erected in precisely the same years, the Paris tower was far less significant either technically or functionally. Except the painter Seurat, most contemporaries disliked it, considering it a monstrous blemish on the Parisian skyline; today of course, it is rightly deemed a nineteenth-century masterpiece, but a masterpiece of engineering rather than of architecture.

As with Eiffel’s pavilion at the Exhibition of 1878, there is considerable ambiguity in the design of the Eiffel Tower. Seen from a distance its four legs have much of the vigorous spring of his bridges and the tapered shaft of criss-crossed metalwork seems—but in fact is not—an almost inevitable expression of large-scale construction in metal. Seen from nearer to, however, the arbitrarily arched forms that link the legs are very conspicuous and also the coarse ornamentation of curvilinear strapwork—recalling a little Wyatt’s at Paddington Station of nearly forty years before, but much less just in scale—with which the basic forms are bedecked. The close similarity of this mixture of frank construction and applied decoration to the Art Nouveau approach to the design of metal structures will shortly become evident. Over-impressed, perhaps, by the more functional engineering feat of construction at the 1889 Exhibition provided by the wide-spanned metal-and-glass Palais des Machines of the engineers Contamin (1840-93), Pierron, and Charton—in which the contribution of the associated architect C.-L.-F. Dutert (1845-1906) was relatively unimportant—certain later critics have preferred that structure to the Eiffel Tower. Yet it is the tower which clearly has more of the magnificence of Eiffel’s bridges despite its irrelevant and (from a distance) almost invisible ornamentation. The tower, moreover, is premonitory of the Art Nouveau; the Galerie des Machines rather of later modern architecture (see Chapters 20 and 22).

One other line of innovation in France in these decades deserves mention. In 1871 Jules Saulnier built a factory for Chocolat Menier near Paris at Noisiel, S.-et-M., with an exposed metal skeleton. The iron frame consists of diagonally set members rather similar to the late medieval timber-framing of France, and the infilling of the panels is of varicoloured bricks and tiles. This structure attracted the attention of Viollet-le-Duc, who saw in it a realization of certain of his theoretical ambitions for nineteenth-century architecture. He not only mentioned it very favourably in the second volume of his _Entretiens_, which appeared in 1872, but in several illustrations suggested similar and variant combinations of iron and masonry. In a colour plate, for example, he showed a striking urban façade with its visible iron framework filled with brilliantly coloured glazed tiles. By the nineties quite a few buildings in France had exploited very successfully this structural system;[363] it is perhaps more important, however, that Viollet-le-Duc’s text and illustrations made the idea familiar internationally.

When one learns that Horta or Gaudí or various Americans ‘read Viollet-le-Duc’ in the seventies and eighties one must assume that the _Entretiens_, of which the first volume appeared in 1863, is meant—and perhaps even more specifically the second volume of 1872 with its accompanying set of plates. These last could be ‘read’ by architects to

## particularly good purpose. The _Entretiens_ were available to most

Europeans in the original language and to the English and the Americans in translation.[364]

The characteristic employment of metal by Art Nouveau architects in the nineties and the first decade of this century undoubtedly owed a great deal both to the inspiration of Eiffel’s large engineering structures, culminating in his tower of 1887-9, and to the vigorous critical support of Saulnier’s ideas which Viollet-le-Duc provided, not to speak of the projects of his own that he published in 1872. The knot is tied tighter—although with a different sort of structural development—when one notes that de Baudot, of all French architects most particularly the disciple and heir of Viollet-le-Duc as well as a former pupil of Henri Labrouste, was the first to exploit ferro-concrete architecturally and not merely technically (see Chapter 18). Moreover, he employed as his contractor to construct his epoch-making concrete church of St Jean de Montmartre in Paris of the nineties (see Chapter 17), Contamin, one of the engineers responsible for the Galerie des Machines at the Exhibition of 1889. But the European Art Nouveau was even less a matter of structural innovation, pure and simple, than Sullivan’s contemporary skyscrapers in America (see Chapter 14).

This brief and curious episode in the history of art,[365] starting in the early nineties and subsiding little more than a decade later, has always been called in English by a French name, perhaps because it never became acclimatized in England but was always considered a dubious import from Belgium and France. Despite the diffidence of the English—which Americans fully shared—the Art Nouveau was an international mode. It was as frequently called in France by the English name ‘Modern Style’, while to the Germans it was ‘Jugendstil’ and to the Italians ‘stile Liberty’. The German term comes from the magazine _Jugend_, whose illustrations and typography were fairly consistently in the new mode; the Italian from Liberty’s, the shop in London whose orientalizing fabrics became widely popular at this time (but with overtones from the obvious pun involved). In Italian it is also, and much more descriptively, the ‘stile floreale’.

The Art Nouveau is not primarily an architectural mode. Many of the finest and boldest of the large edifices built between 1890 and 1910, however, beginning with Sullivan’s skyscrapers, are certainly related to its ethos; and the Art Nouveau leaders produced quite a few buildings of real distinction that can be defined by no other term. Like the Rococo of the early and mid eighteenth century—which the Art Nouveau sometimes closely resembled and to whose revived forms it was often vulgarly assimilated—it was most successful as a mode of interior decoration. Generally linear rather than plastic,[366] the Art Nouveau was also very closely associated with the graphic arts; indeed they provide many of the most characteristic examples, as well as the earliest items that can be considered possible prototypes.

How far back the ultimate sources of the Art Nouveau should be sought, and precisely where, continues to be a subject of active research. In the graphic arts there are certainly significant similarities to be noted in William Blake’s[367] way of designing book pages. Through the Pre-Raphaelites, moreover, a line of descent from Blake can be traced down to the eighties and nineties when, indeed, his characteristic pages were sometimes reproduced in facsimile. But oriental,[368] specifically Japanese, influence certainly played some part also in the gestation of the mode. There is early evidence of that influence on western architecture in the decorative work of Godwin and Nesfield in England, beginning already in the sixties, as also in the painting of the Impressionists in France (see Chapters 10 and 12). But the earliest designs that can be readily mistaken for Continental work of 1900 are certainly by the English architect-decorator Mackmurdo and date from just after 1880. Many of the textile and wallpaper patterns that Mackmurdo, Heywood Sumner (1853-1940), and others created for the Century Guild, founded in 1882, already have the characteristic semi-naturalistic[369] forms, swaying lines, and asymmetrical organization of the mature decorative mode of the nineties. Even more striking is the design of Mackmurdo’s title-page of 1883 for his book on the London churches of Sir Christopher Wren[370]—a curious conjunction, this, of two opposed stylistic developments of the eighties, the one towards the Baroque and the ‘Monumental Queen Anne’, the other towards a wholly novel mode of ornamentation.

English products, such as were shown by the Arts and Crafts Exhibition Society from its foundation in 1888, soon reached the Continent. Moreover, even before the _Studio_ began publication in 1893 Koch’s _Academy Architecture_ (from 1888), which has already been mentioned, and (from 1890) his review _Innendekoration_, as well as less specialized English magazines such as (from 1884) Mackmurdo’s _Hobby Horse_ and (from 1891) _The Yellow Book_, with its highly stylized and very curvilinear illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley, were eagerly studied all over western Europe. The younger men were reading William Morris, too, and responding enthusiastically to his ethical and social demands for a reform of the household arts. At the same time the novel styles of the most advanced Post-Impressionist painters offered a powerful stimulus to architects.

This matter of the relationship between advanced painting and advanced architecture in the nineteenth century, a relationship destined to be of rather greater importance in the early twentieth, deserves some broader comment and recapitulation here. A hundred and fifty years before, when Romantic Classicism was being born in Rome, painters, sculptors, and architects shared common ideals and worked with a full understanding of each other’s problems (see Chapter 1). The backgrounds of David’s bas-relief-like early paintings show architecture in the most advanced taste of the day, and no more beautiful Romantic Classical furniture was actually produced than that which he invented for his Classical scenes and occasionally introduced in his modern portraits. The Classical sculptor Thorwaldsen at the Glyptothek in Munich and later at the Thorwaldsen Museum in Copenhagen collaborated closely with the architects Klenze and Bindesbøll. Schinkel was himself a Romantic painter of some distinction before he matured as a Romantic Classical architect, and he collaborated later on the mural for the front of the Altes Museum with the painter Peter Cornelius, as did Klenze on the decorations of the Glyptothek in Munich.

With the gradual decline of Romantic Classicism architects and painters had more difficulty in developing parallel programmes; and the results of collaboration between them in the decoration of buildings were rarely as happy as the backgrounds the architects sometimes supplied to the painters. Ingres’s stained-glass windows of the forties in the Chapelle d’Orléans at Dreux and the Chapelle Saint-Ferdinand at Neuilly have been mentioned. More successful are the murals by Delacroix in Joly’s library at the Chambre des Deputés in Paris; but there is hardly that real visual harmony between picture and setting that the previous period had often achieved. However, the rising interest in architectural polychromy and the extension of the range of acceptable stylistic models to include the Early Renaissance and even the Middle Ages were both encouraged by the turn that the art of painting was beginning to take on the Continent around 1815. Hübsch, for example, was a sort of Nazarener among architects. Later Ingres was a close friend of Hittorff, even though he never collaborated with him to any good purpose (see Chapter 3), much less with Viollet-le-Duc, with whom he was also on good terms. The degree of stylization that Early Christian, Romanesque, or Gothic architectural modes properly demanded was not yet acceptable in figural art. Indeed, the rather _quattrocento_ early pictures of Ingres were much too ‘Gothic’ for most of his contemporaries and are generally less esteemed than his more Classical work even today.

Above all, the ever-rising importance of landscape in the painting of all countries was necessarily without real parallels in architecture, except in so far as the increasing desire to open up houses towards the circumambient view reflects a similar preoccupation with the natural scene. As to Realism, the principal artistic movement of the mid century in French art, that could only be echoed in architectural theory. Impressionism may seem even more difficult to relate to architecture.[371]

In England in the fifties, however, a loose alliance did exist between the new Pre-Raphaelite painters and some of the leading High Victorian Gothic architects, both supported for a time by the critic Ruskin. In the sixties and seventies Morris on the one hand, developing as a decorator out of the Pre-Raphaelite _milieu_ of Rossetti and Ford Madox Brown, and Whistler on the other hand, chiefly nurtured in the advanced artistic world of Paris but also influenced in England by Rossetti, collaborated closely with architects—Morris with Webb and with Bodley, Whistler with Godwin. As has been noted, the strikingly novel results of the latter collaboration were displayed in Paris in their Anglo-Japanese room at the Exhibition of 1878. Europeans became generally aware of Morris’s decorative work only somewhat later.

In France in these decades fewer painters than in England commissioned talented individualists of the order of Shaw or Webb or Godwin to build their houses.[372] If they were Realists or Impressionists they could not have afforded to do so; if they were prosperous Academicians they would not have wished to. Even in England, Millais, after he became really successful, preferred to build a dull house in South Kensington of quite conventional character rather than to employ Shaw or Webb or Godwin.

In the eighties the most advanced European painters, not merely those of France but more generally, turned away from Realism and even from Impressionism in order to concern themselves more with pattern or with expression. The two French leaders of this reaction whose art seems to posterity most architectonic, Cézanne and Seurat, did not affect architecture or design at this time at all. Even Van Gogh and Gauguin, whose styles have a more decorative inflection, were less influential than such almost forgotten painters as the Dutch Toorop and the Belgian Khnopff, the better-known Belgian Ensor, or the Swiss Hodler and the Norwegian Munch, not to speak of the English Beardsley.

The general admiration in _avant-garde_ circles for the work of these artists—with which went paradoxically a continuing and even growing estimation of the anti-architectonic pictures of the Impressionists and Neo-Impressionists both French and native—ran parallel everywhere with the rapid rise and spread of the Art Nouveau. In some sense, indeed, the Art Nouveau may be considered the equivalent as a mode of design of what is somewhat ambiguously called Impressionism in music—the work of Debussy, Delius, etc. Some of the chief critical supporters of the new painters in the nineties such as Julius Meier-Graefe were also active proponents of the Art Nouveau. Yet advanced painting, in fact, provided little more than a sympathetic atmosphere for the birth of the Art Nouveau, somewhat as the young painters and critics of the third quarter of the eighteenth century had done in Rome for the gestation of Romantic Classicism in architecture.

Why the Art Nouveau should have been initiated full-fledged by Victor Horta (1861-1947)[373] in Brussels in 1892 remains a mystery. The rather similar stylistic crystallization in Sullivan’s architectural ornament, henceforth almost equally organic and sinuous in character, had begun several years earlier even before the interiors of the Auditorium were designed in 1887-8. These will hardly have been known in Belgium, for few foreigners were aware of Sullivan’s work at all until they came to Chicago to visit the World’s Fair in 1893. Illustrations of the remarkable ironwork on Gaudí’s Palau Güell in Barcelona are not likely to have reached Brussels either, though several of its interiors were published in _The Decorator and Furnisher_ in New York in 1892. In any case Gaudí’s ultimate style was only beginning to take form in the early nineties. A certain amount of quite original decoration was being done in New York from the beginning of the eighties by Louis Comfort Tiffany (1848-1933), but it is unlikely that it was known abroad. Tiffany’s ‘Favrile’ glass came a good deal later and is precisely contemporaneous with the Art Nouveau,[374] of which it continued to be for a decade and more one of the most internationally distinguished products.

It is generally assumed that Horta knew the rather similar glass designed earlier by Émile Gallé (1846-1904) in France and that he already had some familiarity with the work of such painters as Ensor, Khnopff, and Toorop, if not with that of Hodler, Munch, or Beardsley. Yet such familiarity would hardly by itself have counter-balanced the academic training he received from his master and later employer Balat (see Chapter 9). This explains, however, the very Classical character of his Temple des Passions Humaines, erected in 1884 in the Parc du Cinquantenaire in Brussels. Horta did no building on his own between 1885 and 1892. Presumably, however, it was knowledge of the theories and the projects of Viollet-le-Duc acquired in those years that encouraged him to make frank and expressive use of iron in association with masonry when he really began to practise. Yet the influence of Viollet-le-Duc hardly provides an explanation for the specific character of his innovations in ornament or the consistency of style that he achieved almost at once.

Against such rather negative assumptions, a more positive one may be set. In the Tassel house in Brussels, completed in 1893, Horta’s first mature work, he introduced an English[375] wallpaper between the exposed metal structural elements of the dining-room walls. It is highly likely, therefore, that the new English decorative products were already known to him the previous year[376] when he designed and began this epoch-making house.

The Tassel house at 6 Rue Paul-Émile Janson, just off the Avenue Louise, initiated a new architectural mode as definitely as one modest terrace-house could possibly do. How long before 1892, when the Tassel house was begun, Horta may have been designing on paper in this way does not seem to be known. When one considers how important the innumerable projects of the second half of the eighteenth century are to our understanding of the architectural revolution that established Romantic Classicism as the successor to the Baroque, the absence of such clues concerning the gestation of the Art Nouveau is most exasperating; but considerable research by students of the period has so far brought little that seems relevant to light.

In plan there are no very great novelties in the Tassel house, although the interior partitions of the principal floor are bent to give varying shapes and sizes to symmetrically disposed spaces that open rather freely into one another. The major innovation lay in the frank expression of metal structure and in the characteristic decoration,

## particularly that of the stair-hall (Plate 130B). There at the foot of

the stair an iron column rises free and svelte out of which iron bands branch at the top, like vines from the trunk of a sapling, to form brackets under the curved openwork beams of iron above. Other lighter and less structural bands interlace to form the stair-rail. The organic, swaying, and interweaving lines of the metalwork, both structural and decorative, were originally rather boldly echoed in purely ornamental curvilinear decoration painted on the walls, and they are still so echoed in the patterns of the extant floor mosaic.

These patterns in the stair-hall are each unique, not repeated like those on the English chintzes and wallpapers they so much resemble. The lines, whether moving freely in space like those of the ironwork, painted on the curved wall, or inlaid in the flat floor plane, all form part of complex organic motifs. The result is therefore more comparable to Mackmurdo’s title-page of 1883, or even to some of the repoussé brasswork on his furniture. (Like the very few buildings Mackmurdo designed, this furniture is quite rectilinear otherwise, it might be noted.) During the brief life of the Art Nouveau hardly even Horta himself, much less those who followed in his footsteps, achieved an ensemble more exemplary than this stair-hall. It is truly a work of interior architecture, not merely a matter of applied decoration as is most of the ornament used in association with the English wallpaper in the dining-room.

The façade of the house is much less striking than the interiors. However, the linear curves of the internal structural elements are reflected plastically, so to say, in the bowing forward of the entire central window area. This is so extensive as to approach, but not to equal, English window-walls of the preceding decades. In the upper storeys the lights in this broad bay-window are subdivided only by iron colonnette-mullions and topped with exposed iron beams. There is no archaeological reminiscence of any past style here; yet it must have been from local stucco-work of the Rococo period that Horta drew the inspiration for his carved stone detail. It certainly does not derive either from England or from Viollet-le-Duc. Horta was, and continued to be, much less happy in devising such plastic ornament than in his metalwork; but he felt obliged to apply it here and there on capitals, cornices, brackets, and so forth, just as conventional architects of the time used the common coin of the Renaissance or Gothic vocabularies.

The Tassel façade may be almost unnoticeable today unless one looks carefully for its exposed metalwork and its rather original detailing, but it evidently had an almost instant appeal in the Brussels of the nineties. The somewhat similar Frison house at 37 Rue Lebeau was built in 1893-4, and in 1895 three more houses were begun, of which the finest is the much larger Hôtel Solvay at 224 Avenue Louise.[377] This house was built, together with a laboratory started a year later, over a period of several years for the famous chemist Ernest Solvay. It remains the most complete of Horta’s domestic commissions, since it retains all the original furniture designed by the architect, though now a _maison de couture_. The broad façade is much more plastic than that of the Tassel house with the walls curving forward in the first and second storeys to enframe two tall flanking bays subdivided by metal colonnettes and transoms (Plate 131A). The ironwork of the balconies is especially rich and characteristic. In the interiors the exposed metal structure and various elaborate incidental features, such as the lighting fixtures, participate fully in the general pattern of organic curvature. Although plant-like in feeling, Horta’s metalwork is quite as abstract as Gaudí’s grilles in the entrance arches of the Palau Güell (Plate 96B) and often achieves a comparable distinction considered as craftsmanship.

The house of Baron Van Eetvelde of 1895 at 4 Avenue Palmerston—the extension to the left numbered 2 is considerably later—has a quite different exterior from the Solvay house. The front has an almost Sullivanian range of arched bays consisting entirely of exposed metalwork. Inside, the salon is even more of a masterpiece than the stair-hall of the Tassel house. A circle of iron columns, curving up into elliptical arches, supports a low dome of glass across which long leaf-like bands of transparent colour continue the sinuous structural curves below. In a happy floral metaphor the lighting fixtures bend and droop, each electric bulb shaded by a coloured glass bell of over-blown tulip shape. Not since Nicholas Pineau developed the _pittoresque_ version of the Rococo in the second quarter of the eighteenth century had such elegant consistency and originality been seen in the decorative exploitation of plant-like elements.

Horta’s other fine houses in Brussels range in date down to the Wiener house of 1919 in the Avenue de l’Astronomie. After the very elegant and restrained Hallet house of 1906 at 346 Avenue Louise they became so dry and so formal that the term Art Nouveau hardly applies to them, however. There are two much earlier examples at 23-25 Rue Américaine, built in 1898, which are of special interest because Horta occupied them himself. The virtuoso elaboration of the interwoven structural and decorative ironwork of the oriel on the one to the left and the continuous ribbon-window set behind iron mullions in the top storey of the other are among the most striking and original external features he ever designed. These years at the very end of the century undoubtedly represent the peak of his career. His most advanced domestic planning was to be seen in the Aubecq house of 1900 at 520 Avenue Louise, demolished in 1950 (Figure 34). There the interflow of space between the interlocking octagonal reception rooms of the ground storey comes very close to that found in certain early houses by Wright (see Chapters 15 and 19).

Certainly Horta’s most important single work is the Maison du Peuple of 1896-9. This was built for the city authorities of Brussels on a curiously-shaped site of which Horta took the fullest advantage. Extending around a segment of a circular _place_ and part way along two radial streets, the façade forms a continuous but irregular series of curves, mostly concave, but with the main entrance placed in one of the shorter convex portions. The greater part of the exterior wall consists of a visible skeleton of iron with solid masonry sections defining the ends and the entrance bay. The vertical stanchions are not curved, but many of the horizontal members are slightly arched. Decorative metal elements at some of the intersections attempt, not altogether successfully, to give to the structural grid the over-all organic quality so happily achieved in the Van Eetvelde entrance hall. As in his houses, Horta had difficulty in assimilating the carved detail of the stonework, here associated with wall panels of brick, to the metalwork; where the two come close together, as in the entrance arch of mixed materials, the result is very awkward indeed.

[Illustration:

Figure 34. Victor Horta: Brussels, Aubecq house, 1900, plan ]

Comparison with Sullivan’s work of these years is inevitable—there is really nothing else of the precise period with which the Maison du Peuple can properly be compared. With Sullivan the main structural members of metal are always covered with terracotta and the visible metalwork is almost entirely decorative. Yet there is considerable similarity in the way Sullivan handled the metal mullions at the entrances of the Carson, Pirie & Scott Store, mullions which rise into and interweave with the ornament above, to Horta’s attempt to merge the structural and the decorative in his framework of visible metal elements here.

His greatest success at this was certainly in the auditorium at the top of the Maison du Peuple. In this the openwork iron beams that support the roof, forming a sort of hammerbeam system with the side galleries, have graceful and expressive but essentially structural curves (Plate 132B). To these the decorative railings of the galleries provide a delicate and harmonious counterpoint in their intricately plant-like detailing. Around the structural frame the auditorium is enclosed only by glass or by very thin panels held in metal frames, rather like the ‘curtain-walls’ of the mid twentieth century; thus there is in this permanent edifice a good deal of the volumetric lightness previously associated with temporary exhibition buildings only.

Among Horta’s commercial buildings in various Belgian cities the most conspicuous was the Innovation Department Store of 1901 in the Rue Neuve in Brussels (Plate 131B). The front, almost entirely of metal and glass though set in a granite frame, was a remarkable example of Art Nouveau decorative design at fully architectural scale. The Innovation completely overshadowed the equally bold but extremely coarse and clumsy Old England Department Store just off the Place Royale in Brussels, also almost entirely of iron and glass, that was built by Paul Saintenoy (1832-92) two years earlier. In the Gros Waucquez Building in the Rue de Sable of 1903-5 and the Wolfers Building of 1906 in the Rue d’Arenberg, as in his houses of those later years, Horta’s treatment is much more restrained than in the department store. Stone piers subdivide their façades, curves are fewer and more structural, and there is much less ornament and almost no exposed iron.

It is a historical paradox that Horta’s architectural career should have continued long after the Art Nouveau was forgotten, bringing him in the end such public esteem and material success as few other innovators of his generation ever knew. Yet his later work, beginning with his Palais des Beaux-Arts in Brussels, designed in 1914 just before the First World War but begun only in 1923, and continuing down to his Central Station there, begun in 1938 and only lately completed, is of purely local significance. What brought him a peerage and a street named after him—that at the side of his Palais des Beaux-Arts—was not his early work of the Art Nouveau years, standing with Sullivan’s skyscrapers like a landmark at the beginning of modern architecture, but this later official work which is almost totally without intrinsic interest and, in the case of the station, actually rather monstrous. The contrast with Sullivan’s barren later years after 1904 is very striking.

Despite the poetic justice that there might be in ignoring a Belgian who long falsely claimed the credit for the invention of the Art Nouveau, one cannot turn to other countries without mentioning the name of Henri Van de Velde (1863-1957).[378] In 1892, when Horta designed the Tassel house, Van de Velde had not even begun to practise architecture. His first work, which is his own house of 1895-6 at Uccle near Brussels, though still rather conventional externally in a simple, almost peasant way perhaps influenced by Voysey, included furniture more functional than Horta’s, if much less elegant and imaginative. He also brought to Brussels—and later to Paris, Berlin, and Weimar—an interpretation of Ruskin’s and Morris’s sociological approach to the arts that had a wide and growing influence, for he pursued his mature career as decorator, architect, and educator largely outside Belgium[379] (see Chapters 17 and 20).

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## CHAPTER 17

THE SPREAD OF THE ART NOUVEAU: THE WORK OF C. R. MACKINTOSH AND ANTONI GAUDÍ

THE initiation of the Art Nouveau by Horta in 1892 was sudden and its spread extremely rapid. Almost concurrently forms very similar to those he had invented began to appear in other European countries. Rarely has a new idea in the visual arts been taken up internationally with so little lag. Advanced artistic circles at this time were evidently thoroughly prepared to accept major innovations and new periodicals, starting up almost one a year, provided vehicles for their transmission: _Pan_ in 1895, for example, _Jugend_ in 1896, _Dekorative Kunst_ in 1897, and _Die Kunst_ in 1899, to mention only German magazines. Had the Art Nouveau not already been invented by Horta the year before, three works of art dated 1893, Aubrey Beardsley’s ‘Cello Player’, an illustration in black and white, Toorop’s picture ‘Three Brides’, and Munch’s ‘The Cry’, first a painting but widely available as a colour-lithograph the following year, might well have supplied the impetus for other designers to do so; doubtless such inspiration did encourage rivalry rather than direct imitation of Horta. In Germany a Munch exhibition in Berlin in 1892 and a Toorop exhibition in Munich in 1893 called attention to the long waving curves and the general linearity of style of these artists. In 1893, moreover, the _Studio_ began to bring to designers and architects everywhere well-chosen illustrations of current English decorative work.

England itself was least responsive to the new Continental mode. It is, indeed, improper to call the Bishopsgate Institute in Bishopsgate in the City of London, built in 1893-4 by C. Harrison Townsend (1850-1928), Art Nouveau. Yet, despite its evident dependence on Webb, the way in which Townsend took the characteristically stylized but basically naturalistic patterns of contemporary English wallpapers and chintzes and used them in relief at architectural scale is as drastic an innovation as are the bits and pieces of more abstract stone carving that Horta used on his Brussels houses of these years. Townsend remained a ‘fellow-traveller’ rather than a member of the international Art Nouveau group for a decade. For example, the façade of his Whitechapel Art Gallery in the Whitechapel Road in the East End of London, designed in 1895 and built in 1897-9, is an improved version of that of the Bishopsgate Institute (Plate 134B). The broad and almost Richardsonian arch is placed off centre, the ornament is freer and bolder, and the few windows are organized in a continuous band below the plain wall of the upper portion.

Less successful, though perhaps more advanced, is Townsend’s Horniman Museum of 1900-1, a free-standing edifice in London Road, Forest Hill, south of London. This has less external ornamentation, except for the façade mosaic by Anning Bell, but there is a very plastically conceived tower with rounded corners placed at one side of the front façade. His church of St Mary the Virgin, consecrated in 1904, at Great Warley in Essex, is very simple, indeed rather Voysey-like as regards the buttressed and roughcast exterior. However, the elaborate decorations inside by Sir William Reynolds-Stephens (1862-1943) offer the most virtuoso example of Art Nouveau in England—at least they are about as close to the Continental mode as the English came.[380] No other English architect came nearer the Art Nouveau than Townsend; in quality, moreover, his work excels most of that done on the Continent by the various imitators and emulators of Horta, even if it lacks the humble integrity of Voysey’s best houses of these years.

The earliest and, later, the most versatile Art Nouveau architect of France[381] was Hector Guimard (1867-1942). But his first work of consequence, the complex block of flats in Paris called the Castel Béranger[382] at 16 Rue La Fontaine, which was completed after several years of construction in 1897, still represents a very ambiguous exploitation of the new ideas coming from Brussels. It must be remembered, however, that the original design almost certainly antedates by a year or two all other Art Nouveau work outside Belgium. Also notable is the fact that the façade of the Castel Béranger was premiated by the City of Paris in 1898, since this indicates the rapidity with which the new mode won approval in France.

In 1896, while the Castel Béranger was building, Siegfried Bing, a Hamburg art-dealer whose wares included Japanese prints—now even more in demand than at any time since their introduction to Europe in the late fifties—and also the new English decorative products, decided to open a shop in Paris. Bing’s Maison de l’Art Nouveau at 22 Rue de Provence was designed for him by L.-B. Bonnier (1856-1946) in the Belgian mode, which thereby acquired its familiar name. This shop was of no great architectural interest, however, except that it was the first of the multitude that were produced in the next ten or fifteen years. Not only in Paris but in most Continental cities large and small, and even in England and in America, where the Art Nouveau otherwise hardly penetrated, these shop-fronts can still be noted; one of the finest has even been transferred from Paris to the Philadelphia Museum of Art in America.

Bing also enlisted the services of Van de Velde, still quite immature as a designer compared to Horta, but very articulate as a critic. Influenced more intellectually than visually by the English, Van de Velde’s personal development as a decorator now proceeded very rapidly. The lounge he designed for the Dresden Exhibition of 1897, for example, was an accomplished if somewhat heavily scaled example of an Art Nouveau interior and much more elaborate than those completed in his house at Uccle the year before.

By the time the Maison du Peuple in Brussels opened three years later in 1899 and Horta’s early career reached its apex of achievement, the Art Nouveau was already a favourite mode with young French designers and generally in rising favour in _fin de siècle_ Paris. As a result even established architects were not averse to introducing its curves in interior decoration and for the detailing of exposed metal structural elements, although most of them had little understanding of its real possibilities. The giant stone colonnades of the Grand Palais in Paris, designed in 1897 and built in 1898-9 for the Exhibition of 1900, were presumably intended to rival those of the plaster palaces of the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893; but behind them the architectural team of H.-A.-A. Deglane (1855-1931), L.-A. Louvet (1860-1936), both pupils of Richardson’s master, André, and A.-F.-T. Thomas (1847-1907) provided a vast iron-and-glass interior detailed in a coarse sort of Art Nouveau way that is quite unrelated to the academic treatment of the exterior.[383]

The entrance feature, designed by René Binet (1866-1911), and the Pavilion Bleu by E.-A.-R. Dulong (1860-?), the principal exhibition restaurant in the Champ de Mars, were even more whole-heartedly _à la mode_. One can hardly regret, however, that these gaudy structures, unlike the Grand Palais, were only temporary. A much superior example of Art Nouveau decoration, Maxim’s Restaurant in the Rue Royale, remains intact as it was redecorated in 1899 by Louis Marney. This is full of period flavour and still splendidly maintained, but it has no real existence as interior architecture. Soon the Art Nouveau would be vulgarized in dozens of cafés, large and small, all over Europe. Of these the Brasserie Universelle in the Avenue de l’Opéra in Paris by Niermans, carried out two or three years after Maxim’s and lately demolished, was perhaps the most sumptuous; there, however, the new mode was eclectically combined with a lush Neo-Rococo.[384]

The architect Charles Plumet (1861-1925), working with the decorator Tony Selmersheim (b. 1871), built in 1898 at 67 Avenue Malakoff the first of a series of houses in which Art Nouveau decoration was grafted on to a general scheme of design that was more or less Late Gothic. This has also been demolished. Such eclecticism, based more usually on eighteenth-century models, is characteristic of the rapid Parisian dilution of the Art Nouveau and doubtless played a great part in its early descent into the obsolescence of the _démodé_. Yet Auguste Perret (1874-1954), in a large block of flats built in 1902 at 119 Avenue de Wagram, exploited in masonry a heavier and richer sort of Art Nouveau than Plumet’s with considerable success (Plate 134A). This edifice is in curious contrast to the flats of ferro-concrete at 25 bis Rue Franklin, designed by Perret in 1902 also, with which his career is generally considered to begin. Even the latter, moreover, have considerably more Art Nouveau feeling in their panels of faience mosaic than is usually recognized (see Chapter 18). The block in the Avenue Wagram is quite typical of French production in these years but of much higher than average quality.

The most accomplished French Art Nouveau designer remained Guimard, the first to take up the mode. His most conspicuous works, however, the Paris Métro entrances of 1898-1901, lie outside the normal realm of architecture (Plate 137B). These are executed entirely in metal of the most sinuous and vegetable-like character, and their extreme virtuosity is the more surprising in that they consist of metal castings produced in series. His no longer extant Humbert de Romans Building of 1902 in the Rue Saint-Didier in Paris, on the other hand, illustrated the usual difficulties of Art Nouveau architects when working with masonry. The exterior was neither Neo-Rococo nor Neo-Flamboyant but curiously crude and gawky in its originality, like his Castel Béranger, with none of the Art Nouveau grace that even Plumet sometimes evoked with success, or the rather lush ornamentation of Perret’s block of flats in the Avenue Wagram. The auditorium inside, however, employed curved structural members even more boldly than Horta had done in that of the Maison du Peuple. Here Guimard succeeded in giving a masculine vigour to the rather feminine forms of a mode already passing its brief prime.

As late as 1911, however, Guimard remained faithful to the Art Nouveau in an extensive range of contiguous blocks of flats that he built at 17-21 Rue La Fontaine near the Castel Béranger. For his own flat there he designed ironwork as boldly abstract as advanced mid twentieth-century sculpture in metal, but also as suavely elegant as comparable Rococo detail of the eighteenth century. The exteriors, moreover, which are entirely of stone, have a great deal of the refinement and restraint of Horta’s Hallet house of 1906 in Brussels. They are, however, more plastically treated with boldly moulded bay windows and attic storeys. Except for Perret’s, few Parisian blocks of flats of the period rival these in interest or in quality of design and execution.

Three Paris department stores of the early years of the century continued to use the metal-and-glass interior structure of Boileau and Eiffel’s Bon Marché, with notable success. In presumable emulation of Horta’s Innovation in Brussels, moreover, the architects of two of these extended considerably the external use of exposed metal introduced by Sédille at the Printemps in the eighties. These two stores remain, with Guimard’s Métro entrances, the most prominent Parisian examples of the Art Nouveau. The main branch of the Samaritaine[385] in the Rue de la Monnaie near the Pont Neuf was built in 1905 by C.-R.-F.-M. Jourdain (1847-1935). This has several fine galleried courts inside in the tradition of the Galeries du Commerce et de l’Industrie of the 1830s, but it is even more distinguished for the sturdy scale and the straightforward design of the external metal frame (Plate 133). The actual structural members are hardly bent at all by the exigencies of the mode; but they were characteristically ornamented not only with decorative metalwork but also with inset panels of polychrome faience, now painted over. On the north front, however, other panels, here of faience mosaic, remain visible; these are of even greater delicacy and elegance than Perret’s foliate panels in his block of flats of 1902-3 in the Rue Franklin.

The contemporary Grand Bazar de la Rue de Rennes, now the Magasins Réunis, at 134-136 Rue de Rennes by H.-B. Gutton (b. 1874) is generally fussier in design than the Samaritaine. Gutton achieved, however, a more completely volumetric expression, emphasizing the lightness and the thinness of metal-and-glass construction somewhat as the early monuments of the 1840s and 1850s in England had done. New shop-windows below and the removal of the open grillework that once rose against the sky have now much diminished its effectiveness. Binet’s earlier galleried court of 1900 at the Printemps was burned out in 1923, unfortunately. With the lifts rising in the corners and the staircases swooping down in great splashing curves, this court was altogether superior to his Entrance to the Exhibition of 1900 and even to Frantz Jourdain’s small later courts in the Samaritaine. It seemed somehow to epitomize what a great metropolitan department store _ought_ to look like somewhat as Garnier’s Opéra epitomizes what later generations came to expect of an opera-house. If Prince Danilo supped with the ‘damen’ of Maxim’s, we can be sure the ‘Merry Widow’ and the ‘Pink Lady’ did their shopping here.

It was the Art Nouveau structures at the Exhibition of 1900 which first focused public attention on the new mode, occasioning also that rapid Parisian vulgarization which brought its early end. At the exhibition, besides the crude but conspicuous things designed by Binet and Dulong that have been mentioned, there was the Pavillon Art Nouveau Bing by Georges de Feure (1868-1928), a designer rather than an architect, which had rooms by Edward Colonna, back from working for Tiffany in America, and others of the best artists and craftsmen employed by Bing; but their exhibits represented decoration, not interior architecture properly speaking. However, by 1900 the Art Nouveau was not at all the strictly Parisian manifestation that it must have seemed to most of those who visited the exhibition. The Germans, notably, had already taken it up with great enthusiasm, beginning about 1897.

The Studio Elvira of 1897-8 in Munich by August Endell (1871-1925) had a plain stucco façade cut by a few strategically placed windows of varied shape; but this façade was splashed across the centre with a very large abstract relief of orientalizing character resembling something half-way between a dragon and a cloud. Endell’s studio, if not the first manifestation of the Art Nouveau in Germany, was certainly the most striking; moreover, it followed immediately upon the showing of Van de Velde’s Lounge at the Dresden Exhibition of 1897. Already, however, in that portion of the Wertheim Department Store in Berlin in the Leipzigerstrasse which was begun in 1896, Alfred Messel (1853-1909) had used a great deal of exposed metal and glass and even perhaps modified the detail a bit towards the Art Nouveau. This was five years before Horta designed the Innovation Department Store in Brussels and ten years earlier than Jourdain’s Samaritaine in Paris. Messel made the spacing of his heavily moulded masonry piers quite wide and opened up completely the bays between. The result was at least as close to Sullivan’s Gage Building of 1898-9 as to the Paris department stores of a decade later. In those portions of this department store that Messel added in 1900-4, however, the façades, although highly stylized, were of rather Late Gothic character and certainly quite remote from the Art Nouveau.

In 1899 Van de Velde moved from Paris to Berlin. There he designed the Hohenzollern Kunstgewerbehaus, a shop parallel to Bing’s Maison de l’Art Nouveau in Paris in its interests and its activities. In the next year he carried out the Haby Barber Shop and the Havana Cigar Store, two of the most extravagant of all Art Nouveau shop interiors. With the opening of the new century, however, in his full-scale architecture Van de Velde moved almost as rapidly away from the Art Nouveau as did Messel, although in a different direction (see Chapter 20). By this time strong counter-influences were reaching Germany from Glasgow and Vienna.

Although not disdaining the Art Nouveau as completely as did the English and the Americans, the Austrians showed little of the enthusiasm of the French and the Germans. There is in Vienna one block of flats[386] of about 1900 so completely Art Nouveau that it might well have been designed by Horta himself. But the leading Austrian architects, old and young, reflected the new Belgian mode only with considerable diffidence and restraint. Otto Wagner (1841-1918), long a well-established academic architect and indeed Professor of Architecture at the Akademie, introduced more and more Art Nouveau detail in the Stadtbahn stations that he built over the years 1894-1901, most notably in the one at the Karlsplatz with its curved metal frame and inset floral panels. However, even this seems tentative and hardly rivals in interest Guimard’s contemporary Métro stations in Paris.

Wagner’s so-called Majolika Haus, a block of flats at 40 Linke Wienzeile designed about 1898, is far more distinguished and original (Plate 138A). Although the ironwork of the balconies is here and there curvilinear in detail and the faience plaques that completely cover the wall are decorated with great swooping patterns of highly colourful flowers, the architectonic elements of the façade are nevertheless very crisp, flat, and rectangular. That Vienna would very shortly become the focus of a reaction against the Art Nouveau does not seem surprising in the light of this façade. Moreover, on an office building erected in the Ungargasse for the firm of Portois & Fix in 1897 by Max Fabiani (b. 1865), who had been Wagner’s assistant in 1894-6, the coloured faience slabs which sheathe its surface are arranged in a purely geometrical chequer-board pattern; only the ironwork has a slightly Art Nouveau flavour. In the late nineties it would be hard to say whether Art Nouveau influence was arriving or departing but for the projects other Viennese architects were publishing in the review _Ver Sacrum_ started in 1898.

The design of the art gallery built in the Friedrichstrasse in Vienna in 1898-9 for the Sezession, a newly founded society of artists in revolt against the Academy, by J. M. Olbrich (1867-1908) seems more influenced, however, by the façade of Townsend’s Whitechapel Art Gallery—only just begun but already published as a project in the _Studio_ in 1895—than by the work of the Belgians or the French, which had affected him strongly in the immediately preceding years. The pierced dome of floral metalwork alone vies in virtuosity with Horta or Guimard, and the pattern of this is actually quite English in character. The bronze doors are by Gustav Klimt, an Austrian Post-Impressionist who can be grouped, up to a point, with the Dutch, Belgian, Norwegian, and Swiss Post-Impressionists mentioned earlier (see Chapter 16). Olbrich was called to Darmstadt in Germany to work at the artists’ colony sponsored there by the Grand Duke Ernst Ludwig in 1899 and Darmstadt, like Vienna, soon became a centre of reaction against the Art Nouveau under his leadership (see Chapter 20).

Both in Vienna and in Darmstadt the influence of the Scottish designer Mackintosh helped most to crystallize an alternative mode. Mackintosh first exhibited a room on the Continent at Munich in 1898, the same year that Baillie Scott was called by the Grand Duke to decorate an interior in the palace at Darmstadt. In 1900 Mackintosh was invited to design a room in the Sezession Exhibition in Vienna. That exhibit undoubtedly encouraged Viennese architects, already diffident towards the Art Nouveau, to turn very sharply away from it. This Adolf Loos (1870-1933) had already done in designing a completely rectilinear shop interior in Vienna in 1898. Loos, Wagner after about 1901, and Wagner’s pupil Josef Hoffmann (1870-1956) were all leaders in the international reaction against the Art Nouveau (see Chapter 20). The position of Mackintosh, however, is rather hard to state so categorically and must be considered here in more detail.

At home in Scotland Mackintosh’s early decorative work of the mid nineties approached Continental Art Nouveau more closely than that of any other Briton, not excluding Townsend. Indeed, he was castigated by his compatriots and his English contemporaries for participating in so exotic a movement. But Mackintosh also came nearer to possessing genius than most of the men of his generation associated with the Art Nouveau, not even excluding Horta. That genius, all the same, was of so ambivalent a nature that he could seem for a few years to go along with the general stream of Continental fashion and yet, almost at the very same time, provide also a real protest against its excesses and its superficialities by the craftsmanlike integrity and the almost ascetic restraint of his best work. That protest the Austrians and the Germans were not slow to heed.

Mackintosh made his first mark in Glasgow, which had earlier been the home of the highly original ‘Greek’ Thomson (see Chapter 4). By the nineties, moreover, interest in contemporary French painting was probably livelier there than it was in London. But Glasgow was also as notorious as Chicago, that major focus of architectural achievement in the America of the nineties, for its presumed philistinism. Touches of Mackintosh’s hand can be distinguished in work of the office of John Honeyman (1831-1914) and his partner Keppie, where the young architect was employed at the start of his career, notably in the Martyrs’ Public School in Glasgow of 1895. But it was in the decoration of the first of a series of Miss Cranston’s ‘tea-rooms’ (_scottice_, restaurants), the one in Buchanan Street remodelled by him in 1897-8, that Mackintosh’s personal talents were first effectively exploited. His very earliest decorative compositions and the murals that he and his wife provided here, full of heavy and presumably Gaelic symbolism, are parallel to, rather than derivative from, the work of the Belgians. They are, in fact, much closer to the drawings of Beardsley and the paintings of Toorop and Munch than to the plant-like ironwork and almost Neo-Rococo carved stone ornament characteristic of Horta. But the same long swinging curves are present, the same linearity, and the same rejection of all stylistic influence from the past.

In this same year 1897 Mackintosh’s firm had the good fortune to win the limited competition for the Glasgow School of Art with a project that was entirely their young designer’s (Plate 132A). Thus he very soon had an opportunity to prove himself architect as well as decorator in a way that only two or three of the Europeans associated with the Art Nouveau had been able to do up to this point. The school was built during the next two years, just as Horta was finishing his Maison du Peuple in Brussels. The only element in the design that relates to the contemporary Art Nouveau of the Continent is the ironwork. This is quite incidental to the major architectonic qualities of the building, moreover, since it is purely decorative, not structural. It is also extremely restrained in its abstract curves, like Fabiani’s of this date in Vienna, and almost totally devoid of vegetable or floral reminiscence.

The entrance to the Glasgow Art School seems to derive from Webb, but, like that of Townsend’s contemporary art gallery in London, it is rather less traditional in character than Webb’s work of this period. The somewhat wilful asymmetry and the plastic elaboration of the central part of the façade contrast nevertheless with the straightforwardness of the general treatment. There are two ranges of very wide studio windows—reputedly derived from a Voysey project—like ‘Chicago windows’ but larger, with the reinforced-concrete lintels above them frankly exposed, and little else in the whole composition. To later eyes this façade, expressing so clearly the uncomplicated plan that it fronts, tends to appear deceptively simple and obvious. But Mackintosh’s very sensitive proportions and the delicate touches of linear detail provided by the ironwork create a design at once very direct and very subtle.

The north end of the building is a tall plain wall of rather small-scaled random ashlar broken only by a few strategically spotted windows of various shapes. At once medievally dramatic and quite abstract, this façade makes one appreciate all the more the almost classical serenity and horizontality of the main front. The Art School is clearly the manifesto of an architectural talent of broad range and great assurance—very different indeed from that of Voysey.

Mackintosh was not alone in Glasgow in these years. A real ‘school’ existed, chiefly in the field of decoration, of which George Walton was another notable exponent.[387] Like Baillie Scott and Ashbee, Walton had some success as an architect in England (see Chapter 15) as Mackintosh did not, even though he executed a few interiors below the Border. But local support was not what it should have been for any of them in either Scotland or England. While the Art School was in construction, however, Mackintosh was asked in 1898 to provide the already-mentioned room in Munich, first of many that he showed at various exhibitions in Germany and Austria. This interior was very different indeed, both in the basic rectangularity of the forms and in the delicacy of the membering, from Van de Velde’s Art Nouveau Lounge at the Dresden Exhibition of the previous year. Thus, even before Van de Velde reached Berlin in 1899, a new line of influence from Glasgow into Germany—and soon into Austria also—was established whose general tendency was in sharp opposition to the lusher currents flowing from Brussels and Paris.

When Olbrich settled in Darmstadt—just _before_ Mackintosh’s room was shown at the Sezession—he also rejected almost completely in the work he carried out at the Grand Duke’s Art Colony the still slightly Art Nouveau leanings—in any case already closer to the English Townsend than to Horta or Van de Velde—of his newly completed Sezession Building (see

## Chapter 20). Only his Pavilion of the Plastic Arts of 1901 at Darmstadt

retained curved elements, and those were structural rather than merely decorative. The general rectangularity and the broad horizontal windows of the Ernst Ludwig Haus, a block of artists’ studios also completed by Olbrich in 1901, suggest comparison with Mackintosh’s Glasgow School of Art. Whether or not, in fact, Olbrich knew Mackintosh’s building—he may well have seen drawings if not photographs of it—his approach here was certainly very similar.

Mackintosh had a good many further opportunities as a decorator, both at home and abroad, but only too few commissions to design whole buildings. However, his two houses near Glasgow, Windy Hill at Kilmacolm of 1899-1901 and Hill House at Helensburgh of 1902-3, are both very notable. Externally they have a certain generic similarity to Voysey’s, with their moderate pitched roofs of dark slate, roughcast walls, and plain stone trim. His prototypes are not English but Scottish, however—the simple seventeenth-century houses of the minor lairds. As one would expect from his interiors, moreover, the façades of Mackintosh’s houses are much more carefully and abstractly composed than Voysey’s; they even include some simple geometrical features that are not at all reminiscent of the past in their design. Like Voysey’s houses, Mackintosh’s show no real novelties in planning, although the disposition of the rooms is always straightforward and commodious. The interiors are very original and rather less forced than those he was producing for exhibitions on the Continent.

Mackintosh built very little after 1903 except the Scotland Street School of 1904 in Glasgow, the north wing of the Glasgow Art School in 1907-8, and the finest of the various tea-rooms that he remodelled for Miss Cranston. This was the Willow Tea Room in Sauchiehall Street of 1904, for which he remade the façade as well as reorganizing the interior. Internally this tea-room was arranged on several interrelated levels subdivided by ingenious screenwork; the exterior was a flat surface of white stucco cut by broad horizontal openings, one to a storey. The Scotland Street School is equally straightforward in design, the rather plain façade with its ranges of horizontal windows being flanked by rounded stair-towers articulated into continuous stone grids by mullions and transoms, like the bay windows of Voysey’s Broadleys but much taller.

The north wing of the Glasgow Art School is more remarkable, quite worthy of the original front but much more stylized (Plate 135A). Where the front is strongly horizontal the new end façade, like that on the south, is markedly vertical, in part because of the way the ground falls off. But the tall oriels, glazed at the outer plane of the stonework, are striking features, and the whole composition is tense and dramatic. The library inside is a _tour de force_ of spatial subdivision somewhat like the Willow Tea Room. Most notable is the way the rectangular stick-work makes manifest the complex articulation of the total volume. This sort of handling of interior space was unique up to this time as a product of conscious design, although already present inside Paxton’s Crystal Palace in the mid nineteenth century. Certainly there is no evidence here of a decline in Mackintosh’s creative powers; indeed, quite the contrary. Yet this library proved to be his swan song; for want of further commissions Mackintosh’s career all but closed at much the same time that the Art Nouveau was coming to an end on the Continent. Not since Ledoux perhaps had so great a talent been thus thwarted by circumstances, although just what the thwarting circumstances were, other than Mackintosh’s own temperament, is not so evident as in the case of the revolutionary French architect.

The Art Nouveau, so extensively propagated by exhibitions, is often thought to have terminated with an exhibition, that held at Turin in 1902. This is more than a slight exaggeration, as various already mentioned buildings executed as late as 1911 will have made evident. Yet after the early years of the century the decline of the Art Nouveau was almost universal except in provincial places and in outlying countries such as those of Latin America and eastern Europe. At Turin the Belgian section had characteristic Art Nouveau interiors by Horta. Mackintosh, wholly detached by now from the Art Nouveau, contributed a Rose Boudoir, typically light in colour and delicate in line with the predominant verticals and horizontals relieved by little abstract knots, so to say, of curvilinear decoration. Raimondo D’Aronco (1857-1932), the Italian architect responsible for the principal pavilions, wavered between a rather plastic, somewhat Neo-Baroque, version of the Art Nouveau, not unrelated to the seventeenth-century work of the great local architect Guarino Guarini, and a crisper mode much influenced by Mackintosh and the Viennese.

D’Aronco’s finest building, however, was not at Turin but the Pavilion of Fine Arts that he designed for the Udine Exhibition the next year. Moving sharply away from the turgidity of much of his work at the earlier exhibition, he produced for Udine a façade that was unified in design, frankly impermanent in its materials, and at once festive in spirit and dignified in tone. This was a most distinguished piece of exhibition architecture in a period when leading designers gave a great part of their attention to such rather ephemeral things—largely, doubtless, because so few opportunities to build permanent structures came their way. In Istanbul, D’Aronco built a small mosque in 1903, prominently located by the Galata Bridge, and also several blocks of flats that signally fail to maintain the promise of his Italian exhibition buildings. The very awkwardly sited mosque, raised on top of an existing structure, is as Viennese in character as the Udine pavilion.

Other Italian architects, however, remained faithful for a few years to the _stile floreale_, their version of the Art Nouveau. In Milan the Casa Castiglione, a _palazzo_ or mansion-like block of flats at 47 Corso Venezia built by Giuseppe Sommaruga (1867-1917) in 1903, is a very large and ponderous example. The detail is extremely bold, inside and out, the materials rich, and a very large part of the interior is given up to a monumental stair-hall of almost Piranesian spatial complexity. A Milanese hotel at 15 Corso Vittorio Emmanuele of 1904-5 by A. Cattaneo and G. Santamaria is of a comparable extravagance. Finer perhaps, certainly simpler, is the Casa Tosi of 1910 at 28 Via Senato in Milan by Alfredo Campanini (1873-1926).[388]

To judge from the rather _stile floreale_ character of some work of this period in Latin America, Italians as well as Iberians may well have carried the Art Nouveau there. In Cuba and Brazil, especially, memories of Colonial exuberance encouraged a profusion of carved or moulded ornament beyond even the excesses of the French around 1900. The most prominent example, but not the most characteristic, is the Palacio de Bellas Artes in Mexico City begun for President Diaz by Adamo Boari after 1903 and completed in 1933 by Federico Mariscal; this is ‘Beaux-Arts’—not inappropriately, perhaps—in all except its detailing; in the latest portions this reflects the Paris of the Exposition des Arts Décoratifs of 1925 rather than the Art Nouveau Paris of 1900.

In Spain itself the international current of the Art Nouveau was not very influential outside Barcelona. Gaudí, whose earlier work of the seventies and eighties has already been described (see Chapter 11), continued to be as much apart from the contemporary Spanish architectural scene as he was from the international Art Nouveau. His finest late works, moreover, all but post-date the demise of the Art Nouveau in the major European capitals. Nor is there any such close, if ambivalent, linkage between Gaudí’s career and the general rise and fall of the mode as in the case of Mackintosh. One can only say that his personal style is more closely related to the Art Nouveau than to the new stage of modern architecture that was already succeeding it by the time he produced his final masterpieces. The premonitory character of his early ironwork has been discussed and illustrated already (Plate 96B).

Gaudí’s work on the church of the Sagrada Familia[389] in Barcelona went on more or less continuously from 1884 to 1914 and began again in 1919 after the First World War. The most conspicuous portion that has so far been executed, one of the transept façades, was designed and largely built in the nineties. Dominating Barcelona with its four extraordinary towers—not finally completed until after Gaudí’s death in 1926—this façade, begun in 1891, breaks quite sharply with the Neo-Gothic of Villar’s crypt and his own chevet. The portals with their steep gables have a generically Gothic _ordonnance_; but the extraordinary profusion of sculpture, mostly executed after 1903, gives a highly novel flavour. While conventional enough as regards the figures, this is otherwise either naturalistically floral or else meltingly abstract. It resembles the Art Nouveau in many minor details, but is generally bolder in scale, more fully three-dimensional, and, in places, somewhat nightmarish.

Although only about two-thirds as tall as the cluster of towers intended by Gaudí to rise over the crossing, the four openwork spires above this façade—with the two in the centre taller than those on the sides—reach a wholly disproportionate height in relation to the roof that should ultimately cover the still unbuilt transept. At the top they break out into fantastically plastic finials whose multi-planar surfaces are covered with a mosaic of broken tiling in brilliant colours. The prototypes for these finials are the chimney-pots of the Palau Güell, but here their note of free fantasy is raised to monumental scale. The inspiration of the towers, so remote in character from anything that the Art Nouveau ever produced, came from certain native buildings which Gaudí had seen in Africa: these strange primitive[390] forms he first exploited in a project of 1892-3 for the Spanish Franciscan Mission in Tangier which was never executed.

_In posse_ the Sagrada Familia is perhaps the greatest ecclesiastical monument of the last hundred years; beside it such a suave late example of monumental Neo-Gothic in England as Liverpool Cathedral, begun by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott in 1903, lacks both vitality and originality of expression, if not nobility of scale. However, Gaudí’s church still remains a fragment, and a very incoherent one at that, even though he prepared in 1925, the year before his death, a brilliant new project for the nave. Gaudí really stands or falls by the few secular buildings that he was able to carry to completion, beginning with the Palau Güell of 1886-9 (Plate 96B), and not, as many compatriots assume, by the unrealized—perhaps unrealizable—plans for the Sagrada Familia. (Construction has gone slowly forward, however, on the other transept for a decade now.)

Gaudí’s next Barcelona mansion after the Palau Güell, that built at 48 Carrer de Casp for the heirs of Pedro Mártir Calvet in 1898-1904, is much less impressive. Baroque rather than medieval in its antecedents, this is interesting chiefly for the detailing of the ironwork; but even that is no more remarkable here than that at the Palau Güell of a decade earlier. It is of interest, however, as illustrating the support which Gaudí received all along from his fellow citizens, that the Casa Calvet was awarded a prize in 1901 as the best new façade in Barcelona, quite as Guimard’s Castel Béranger was premiated three years earlier in Paris.

A wholly new spirit, quite comparable in its total originality to the Art Nouveau, first appears in the work that Gaudí did for Don Eusebio Güell at the Park Güell (now the Municipal Park of Barcelona), carried out over the years 1900-14, and in the walls and the gate he built in 1901-2 for the suburban estate of Don Hermenegildo Miralles in Las Corts de Sarriá. In the latter all the forms are curved and no stylistic reminiscence whatsoever remains, but it is a production of minor importance compared to the park. The park is mostly landscaping, but

## partly architecture in that it includes several small buildings and much

subsidiary construction. A sort of Neo-Romantic naturalism, exceeding in fantasy that of the most exotic landscape gardening of the eighteenth century, controls the whole conception. Sinuous and megalomaniac near-Doric colonnades of concrete support a sort of flat vault that is of great interest technically;[391] yet these colonnades also suggest artificial ruins of the eighteenth-century sort raised to giant scale. The other porticoes and grottoes, however, recall no architecture of the past. Their rubble columns seem rather to emulate slanting tree-trunks, but in fact their profiles were worked out statically with the most careful study of the forces involved.

The ranges of curving benches surrounding the great open terrace over the Doric hypostyle, although covered with a mosaic of the most heterogeneous bits and pieces of broken faience, seem like congelations of the waves of the sea; the roofs of the lodges, also tile-covered, toss in the air like cockscombs. A strange biological plasticity, rather like that of the small-scale carved detail of Horta’s or Guimard’s buildings very much enlarged, turns whole structures into malleable masses as in some Gulliverian dream of vegetable or animal elements grown to monumental size. Everything but the ironwork is moulded in three dimensions, and even the ironwork tends towards a heavy scale more comparable to that of the structural members of metal used in Belgian or French work of the day than to the delicacy of Art Nouveau decorative detail.

Gaudí’s major secular works belong to the same years as the execution of the park. It is hard to believe that the Casa Batlló at 43 Passeig de Gracia in Barcelona, a small block of flats, is not a completely new structure but a remodelling carried out in 1905-7. This fact perhaps explains the relative flatness of the façade. Yet Gaudí made the lower storeys extraordinarily plastic and open, using a bony articulation of curvilinear stone members, and the high roof in front that masks the roof terrace is of even more cockscomb-like character than those on his park lodges (Plate 136). The upper storeys of the façade glitter with a fantastic plaquage of broken coloured glass considerably more subtle in tonality than his usual mosaic of faience fragments.[392] But architecturally the façade is handled more like Horta’s, with most of the windows nearly rectangular even though bulging balconettes of metal project at their bases. The effect, as with Horta, is slightly Neo-Rococo. But the sort of Rococo which this façade recalls is not circumspect French eighteenth-century work but the lusher mode that was exploited in Bavaria and Austria—and still more appositely in Portugal and Spain. The entire wall surface seems to be in motion, and all its edges waver and wind in a way that even interior panelling did rarely in eighteenth-century France. This effect of total motion is even more notable in the interiors, which seem to have been hollowed out by the waves of the sea.

The rear façade of the Casa Batlló is remarkable for its openness. The wide window-walls in the paired flats open on to sinuous balconies extending all the way across. Above, there is a simpler plastic cresting than on the front; over this the curious forms of the chimney-pots provide a range of abstract sculptural features covered with polychrome tiling, always a favourite terminal theme of Gaudí’s.

[Illustration:

Figure 35. Antoni Gaudí: Barcelona, Casa Milá, 1905-10, plan of typical floor ]

Much larger than the Casa Batlló is the edifice built for Roser Segimon de Milá in 1905-7 at 92 Passeig de Gracia, appropriately known in Barcelona as ‘La Pedrera’ (the quarry). Surrounding two more or less circular courts, this large block of flats occupies an obtuse corner site, and the entire plan is worked out in curves as well as all the elements of the exterior (Figure 35). The façade of the Casa Milá is not a thin plane, curling like paper at the edges and pierced with squarish holes like that of the Casa Batlló; instead ranges of balconies heavier than those on the rear of the Casa Batlló sway in and out like the waves of the sea beneath the foamlike crest of the roof, making the whole edifice a very complex plastic entity (Plate 137A). From a distance La Pedrera looks as if it were all freely modelled in clay; in fact, it is executed in cut stone with boldly hammered surfaces that appear to result from natural erosion.

There is no external polychromy of glass or tile here, and the frescoed colour used on the court walls has suffered such serious deterioration that it is difficult to know what it was like originally. On the other hand, Gaudí’s detail was never more carefully studied nor more consistent; there are no straight lines at all, and in the forms of the piers rising from the ground to support the balconies of the first storey he suggested natural formations with real success (Plate 135B). These elements look as if they had been produced by the action of sea and weather rather than by the chisel, quite as does much of the mid-twentieth-century sculpture of Henry Moore.

The marine note is seen at its strongest and most naturalistic in the ironwork however. Strewn over the balcony parapets and across various openings, like seaweed over the rocks and sand of the seashore, the railings and grilles are full of intense organic vitality with none of the graceful droopiness of Guimard’s Métro entrances. Gaudí’s metalwork frequently suggests the work of various mid-twentieth-century sculptors in welded metal, quite as his handling of masonry does later sculpture in stone. Indeed, his iron grilles often exceed such sculptors’ metalwork in richness and variety of form, as also in the fine hand-craftsmanship of the execution.

The detailing on the Casa Milá, whether of the masonry or the ironwork, avoids the nightmarish overscaling of the somewhat similar elements at the Parc Güell, and also the coarseness of the broken faience mosaic surfaces that he used so much there and elsewhere but here restricted to the roof-tops. As regards the masonry, moreover, it is really wrong to speak of detailing, for the very fabric of the structure, not just its edges and its trimmings as on the Casa Batlló, has been completely moulded to the architect’s plastic will. Whether or not it be correct to consider the Casa Milá an example of the Art Nouveau—and technically it is not—La Pedrera remains one of the greatest masterpieces of the curvilinear mode of 1900, rivalled in quality only by the finest of Sullivan’s skyscrapers (Plate 119), which it does not, of course, resemble visually at all.

Despite the esteem in which his work has always been held by his fellow-citizens of Barcelona, Gaudí had few local imitators of consequence. However, such detailing on early twentieth-century buildings there as may appear at first to be conventionally Art Nouveau is often in fact a bit Gaudian. Only his assistants Francisc Berenguer (1866-1914) and J. M. Jujol Gibert (1879-1949) seem to have understood Gaudí’s mature style. At least the house by Jujol at 335 Diagonal in Barcelona, though quite small and simple, and the Bodega Güell at Garraf of 1913 by Berenguer are of a quality worthy of comparison with Gaudí’s own best work.[393] The big Palau de la Musica Catalana, built by Luis Domenech Montaner (1850-1923) in 1908, is a very extravagant example of the architecture of the period, bold and coarse and rich, but with none of Gaudí’s personal flair and integrity.

In Glasgow Mackintosh after 1908 was a prophet with far less honour than ‘Greek’ Thomson had received there in an earlier day. But the countercurrent that he had helped to set going on the Continent was in full swing, particularly in Austria and in Germany (see Chapters 20 and 21). Even in Horta’s own Brussels, Josef Hoffmann had been called from Vienna as early as 1905 to build the suburban Stoclet mansion (Plate 154A) at 373 Avenue de Tervueren (see Chapter 21).

Despite the ephemeral nature of much of its production and the completeness with which it was ultimately rejected everywhere, the Art Nouveau has very great historical importance. The Art Nouveau offered the first international programme for a basic renewal of architecture that the nineteenth century actually set out to realize. Most earlier programmes, moreover, even if not primarily revivalistic, aimed chiefly at the reform of architecture; this was still true of Voysey and his English contemporaries in these very years, though not, of course, of Sullivan and Wright, working in isolation in the American Middle West. Thus the Art Nouveau was actually the first stage of modern architecture in Europe, if modern architecture be understood as implying, before anything else, the total rejection of historicism.

The proto-modernity of earlier stages of nineteenth-century architectural development is almost always ambiguous, since the leaders of the various successive movements rarely intended to break with the past entirely. The characteristic ideal of nineteenth-century architects, as of their late eighteenth-century predecessors, had been to react against what they considered the decadence of the building arts current in their day by returning to the principles of some earlier and supposedly purer or more vital age. The very considerable amount of innovation that many European architects before Horta introduced in their work was not exactly unconscious; but it was rather a matter of achieving personal expression by adapting old forms to new needs, new materials, and new methods of construction than of creating a wholly original modern style.

Well before the nineties a very few men had consciously sought absolute originality and total freedom from the disciplines of the past. But such architects found little or no public support for their programmes of architectural revolution nor even fellow-artists to share in their highly individualistic campaigns. After the relatively universal acceptance of the doctrines of Romantic Classicism there had followed chiefly a succession and a multiplication of divergences; now, in the nineties, a real pattern of convergence appeared. But this convergence was premature. The renewal of ornament and of the accessories of architecture outran the renewal of the more basic elements of the art of building towards which the technical developments of the nineteenth century had been so inevitably leading.

Thus the Art Nouveau stands apart both from the architecture of the preceding hundred years and from the modern architecture of the following sixty which extends down to the present. It did not bring the one to an end, as the profusion of so-called ‘traditional’ buildings of the early twentieth century makes very evident (see Chapter 24), nor did it provide much more than a preface to the major new developments that mark the early decades of the present century (see Chapters 18-21). That the Art Nouveau was completely rejected on principle by ‘traditionalists’ is not surprising: it was the first serious attack on the position they continued to maintain. But the very rapidity with which the Art Nouveau rose to popularity and descended to vulgarization encouraged its denigration in the name of ‘taste’ by almost all other architects soon after it reached its climax around 1900. In recompense, interest in the Art Nouveau began to revive early, by the early thirties, after a much shorter period of neglect than other phases of nineteenth-century architectural development have undergone and are still undergoing.

The place of the Art Nouveau in the story of modern architecture, if only as an episode of youthful wild-oat-sowing, is now well established. Most of its exponents actually lived long enough to receive in their later years embarrassing praise for youthful work they had quite disowned if not forgotten. It is a curious paradox that although most of the leaders of the Art Nouveau survived for decades—and Van de Velde died only in 1957—not one except Gaudí[394] maintained after 1910 the position of relative pre-eminence that had been his in 1900. A wholly new cast of characters, many of them no younger, came to the fore in the first decade of the twentieth century; they constitute the first generation of modern architects, properly speaking.

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## CHAPTER 18

MODERN ARCHITECTS OF THE FIRST GENERATION IN FRANCE: AUGUSTE PERRET AND TONY GARNIER

NO better name than ‘modern’ has yet been found for what has come to be the characteristic architecture of the twentieth century throughout the western world, well beyond its confines also in Japan, India, and Africa, and increasingly in most of the Communist countries. Alternative adjectives such as ‘rational’, ‘functional’, ‘international’, or ‘organic’ all have the disadvantage of being either vaguer or more tendentious. Whether the Art Nouveau or such things as Sullivan’s skyscrapers and Voysey’s houses all truly belong, in their rather sharply differing ways, to a first stage of modern architecture or are transitional and prefatory may still be debated; but from the earliest years of this century several continuous lines of development can certainly be traced. These lines were in the main convergent through the twenties, if increasingly divergent in the middle decades of the century. By stressing generic changes rather than specific achievements the development can be presented almost anonymously, somewhat as the nineteenth-century development of commercial architecture was outlined earlier in this book (see Chapter 14). But it is more humanistic, and at least as true to the detailed facts, to consider modern architecture as deriving from the individual activities of a few leaders rather than from some Hegelian historic necessity. Of those leaders one group, born in the late 1860s, constitutes the first generation; a group born some twenty years later forms a second generation; since the 1930s still another generation has come to the fore.

A somewhat similar succession of three generations could be distinguished in the case of Romantic Classicism, the last universal style in architecture. What sets the twentieth-century situation apart from that of the earlier period has been the marked prolongation of the

## activity of the first generation, two of whose leading members, Wright

and Perret, lived on and remained active well beyond 1950. Wright continued in vigorous production down to his death in 1959. The leaders of the second generation, who first moved towards the centre of the stage in the early twenties, are mostly still alive; two of them at least, Le Corbusier and Mies van der Rohe, have been rather more productive since 1946 than they were earlier in their careers (see

## Chapter 21).

While some influence from their juniors can be noted in the later work of the modern architects of the first generation, a real difference between their approach to architecture and that of the second generation has continued. Those who have come forward since the mid thirties owe much to the first generation as well as to the second, yet they have also manifested some significant characteristics that are their own. The modern architecture of the last sixty years may well be presented historically in terms of the work of two generations of leaders (see Chapters 18-23), and then of the production of the decade following the Second World War (see Chapter 25). But modern architecture, even very broadly interpreted, includes only a small fraction of all building production down to the war; the work of those supporters of the ‘tradition’ in the twentieth century bulked much larger in quantity, even if it very rarely rivalled the modern work in interest or quality (see Chapter 24). An Epilogue will touch on the current scene in the early sixties.

The leaders of the first generation of modern architects remained great individualists to the last. It is therefore not easy to draw any general stylistic picture from their production, even for the years before the twenties when they were the only modern architects. The leaders of the second generation drew their inspiration, in most cases, not from one but from several of the older men; yet their work was so convergent that by the mid twenties a body of doctrine had come to exist deriving partly from their theories and partly from their few executed buildings and their many projects. With the increasingly wide acceptance of this body of doctrine critics were soon ready to recognize the existence of a new style as coherent, as consistent, and almost as universally employed by younger architects everywhere as the Romantic Classical style had been at the opening of the nineteenth century (see Chapter 22).

Towards the constitution of this new style each of the great architects of the first generation had made notable contributions; yet their executed work, and even more their theories, remained independent of it. To appreciate that work only in the light of what they had in common with their juniors is to miss much of the richness and all of the idiosyncrasy of their achievement. In considering the work of these older architects for its own sake, what sets it apart from the Art Nouveau, whose protagonists were in many cases their exact contemporaries, must first be indicated and evaluated. For example, their rejection of ornament, at most but relative, provides only a minor and negative point of differentiation. In their positive preoccupation with structure and its direct architectonic expression, and also their reform and revitalization of planning concepts, however, they went much further than most of the Art Nouveau designers of 1900. It is true that such architects as Horta and Jourdain, when working with metal and glass, were concerned with the expression of structure, but that expression was usually more decorative than architectonic (Plates 132B and 133). Traditional materials, such as stone and brick, in the hands of Art Nouveau architects and their spiritual brothers often lost all their natural character, being treated like so much clay. The sense of materials, both new and old, and the determination of their proper use preoccupied all the leading architects of the first generation, something for which only the English and the Americans prepared the way in the nineteenth century.

The new importance of structure and its expression, the preoccupation with a particular building material, is nowhere more evident than in the work of Auguste Perret (1874-1954), the only great French architect of this generation. Associated as he was with the family contracting firm of A. & G. Perret, which specialized early in the use of reinforced concrete, he saw as his principal task the development of formulas of design for concrete as valid as those so long established in France for building with stone. The other architects of his generation came more gradually and less whole-heartedly to the exploitation of new materials—it is paradoxical, for example, that the characteristic Art Nouveau interest in exposed metal construction came generally to an end about 1905—and their work as a result is more various and less doctrinaire. Because of Perret’s clear definition of his goal and his single-minded advance along a predetermined line, his somewhat limited architectural achievement may well be considered before the protean many-sidedness of Wright’s in America and the ambiguity of Peter Behrens’s in Germany, not to speak of the important contributions of Wagner and Loos in Austria, and of Berlage and de Klerk in Holland (see Chapters 19, 20, and 21).

Auguste Perret came of Burgundian stock, but by the accident of his father’s exile from France after the Commune he was born in Brussels. His education was entirely French. He left the École des Beaux-Arts to enter the family’s building firm without waiting to receive the Government’s diploma, somewhat as Wright went out into the practical world with but two years of engineering school behind him. His career began almost at once, for he built his first house at Berneval in 1890. Several blocks of flats and an office building in Paris followed in the next eight years; the Municipal Casino at St-Malo, built in 1899, was the first work of any real consequence. There he and his brother Gustave (1876-?) used reinforced concrete for an unsupported slab floor of 54-foot span. Executed otherwise in local granite and wood, this building has a certain bold simplicity as remote from ‘Beaux-Arts’ as from Art Nouveau work of the period.

Reinforced concrete,[395] that is concrete strengthened by internal reinforcing rods of metal, seems to have been invented by a French gardener named Joseph Monnier in 1849, but he used it only for flower pots and outdoor furniture. In 1847 François Coignet (1814-88) built some houses of poured concrete without reinforcement; in 1852 for a house at 72 Rue Charles Michel in St-Denis, Seine, Coignet first employed his own system of _béton armé_, to use his term. That term has since remained current in French—the German term is _Eisenbeton_, the Italian _cimento armato_. During the next four decades ferro-concrete, to give it its simplest English name, was developed very gradually by Coignet and by François Hennebique (1842-1921) with no very notable architectural results. Detailed research is gradually revealing many instances of its early use by various men in different countries; but neither in the scale of its employment nor in the achievement of new and characteristic modes of expression does its history in these decades rival that of iron in the first half of the nineteenth century (see

## Chapter 7).

In 1894, just as the Art Nouveau was reaching France, ferro-concrete was used for the first time in a structure of some modest architectural pretension by J.-E.-A. de Baudot[396] (1836-1915) for a school in the Rue de Sévigné in Paris. This is overshadowed in interest, however, by the church he began to build in 1897. Saint-Jean-de-Montmartre at 2 Place des Abbesses in Paris has very little connexion with the Art Nouveau except for its drastic novelty. On the contrary, de Baudot employed for his structural skeleton very much simplified Gothic forms. Actually, it is incorrect to call the material used here _béton armé_; it is more properly _ciment armé_ since there is no coarse aggregate as in concrete. Like his master Viollet-le-Duc’s projects, Saint-Jean is curious rather than impressive and not at all to be compared in intrinsic interest with Gaudí’s Sagrada Familia. Worth noting, however, is the use of faience mosaic to decorate the concrete structural members, something de Baudot had already tried out on his earlier school. The authorities were dubious of the strength of de Baudot’s structure, as well they might have been considering the iron-like delicacy of the membering, and a hiatus of several years held up the construction after 1899, the church being completed only in 1902-4. As has been mentioned already, the contractor was Contamin working with Soubaux, his partner of the period.

Before Saint-Jean-de-Montmartre was finally finished in 1904, Perret had already demonstrated the architectural possibilities of the new material rather more effectively in the block of flats that he built in 1902-3 at 25 bis Rue Franklin in Paris. Despite the echo of the Art Nouveau already noted in the foliage patterns of faience mosaic filling the wall-panels on the exterior, most of the interest of the building resides in its structure and its planning. Like that of Anatole de Baudot’s church, the structure is visibly a discrete framework, but made up entirely of vertical and horizontal elements with no curved members of either Gothic or Art Nouveau inspiration. However, the concrete is nowhere exposed but always covered with glazed tile sheathing. Within the wall-panels the windows are crisply outlined by plain projecting bands of tile; this provides an early instance of that _encadrement_, or framing, on which Perret came to insist in all his work after the mid twenties.

The skeletal structure of 25 bis Rue Franklin allowed great freedom in planning (Figure 36). Around a small court, sunk into the front of the building, the principal living areas of each flat all open into one another, somewhat as in Wright’s Hickox house of 1900 but with less spatial unification (Figure 31); the result is closer to Horta’s treatment of the main floor of his Aubecq house of 1900 in Brussels (Figure 34).

The next year Perret built another block of flats at 83 Avenue Niel in Paris with an internal skeleton not of concrete but of metal, and façades of stone treated somewhat like those of his Art Nouveau flats of the previous year in the Avenue Wagram (see Chapter 17). He returned, however, at once to the use of ferro-concrete and rarely deserted it again.

The Garage Ponthieu, which was built in 1905-6 in the Rue de Ponthieu in Paris, is a much more striking example of the possibilities of the new material than the earlier blocks of flats; moreover, the concrete is here exposed (Plate 139A). Inside, galleries carried along both sides of the L-shaped space provide a second level for parking motor cars and the whole interior is almost as light and open as if it were built of metal, thus recalling a little de Baudot’s church. The façade, likewise, is as skeletal as if executed with a metal frame. But Perret’s determination, somewhat comparable to Sullivan’s in the Wainwright Building in St Louis of fifteen years before, to organize the expression of a new type of construction along basically Classical lines is as evident as the maximal fenestration. The thin slab which projects at the top provides a sort of cornice and the range of small windows underneath it a sort of frieze, while the arrangement of the elements of the façade below is very formal indeed. The rose-window-like glazing of the big central panel is somewhat rudimentary and rather less Classical in feeling than the rest, but the essentials of Perret’s concrete aesthetic are all adumbrated here as they were not in the more tentative block of flats in the Rue Franklin.

In the solid, marble-sheathed façade of the Théâtre des Champs Élysées in the Avenue Montaigne in Paris, Perret’s largest and most conspicuous early work, his classicizing intentions are even more evident, but the expression of concrete-skeleton structure is much less complete; these intentions are underlined, moreover, by the large stylized reliefs by Antoine Bourdelle that provide the only external decoration. Originally, in late 1910, the commission for this theatre was given to Van de Velde. He at once proposed that it should be built of ferro-concrete with the Perret firm as contractors. During the course of the following year Perret proposed various changes in the plan to make more practical its construction with a concrete skeleton. When he later offered an alternative design for the façade this was preferred by Van de Velde because it seemed then so expressive of the underlying structure, as it hardly does to posterity. By September Van de Velde made a final report as consulting architect and withdrew completely. Needless to say, there has been controversy ever since as to the degree of Perret’s responsibility for this major monument of twentieth-century Paris; as built, however, there can be little question that it is very largely of his design. How different a theatre by Van de Velde would have been is at least suggested by the one that he erected in 1914 for the Werkbund Exhibition in Cologne (see Chapter 20).

[Illustration:

Figure 36. Auguste Perret: Paris, block of flats, 25 bis Rue Franklin, 1902-3, plan ]

The foyer of the Théâtre des Champs Élysées expresses the possibilities of ferro-concrete in a more architectural way than do the interiors of the earlier block of flats and the garage. The actual structural members of the skeleton are visible in the free-standing columns, as are also the beams that they support; the walls are very evidently only thin panels between the piers. A few simple mouldings are used to assimilate the new expression to the conventions of academic design—too few to satisfy contemporaries, though too many for later taste.

There is less clarity of expression in the great auditorium because of the profusion of murals contributed by various Symbolists and Neo-Impressionists—Maurice Denis and K.-X. Roussel most notably—and by the over-all gilding of the principal structural members, which are also elaborated by semi-Classical detailing. Even so, the fact that the dome is carried on the four pairs of tall slender columns is very evident, and the swinging curves of the successive balconies give early evidence of the ease with which ferro-concrete lends itself to bold cantilevering.

The presumed necessity of achieving monumentality undoubtedly compromised the purity of Perret’s expression of structure throughout the Théâtre des Champs Élysées. During the War, which followed so soon after the inauguration of the theatre in 1913, an important industrial commission of Perret’s produced what would be for the next generation of architects a more exemplary work. The warehouses built at Casablanca in North Africa in 1915-16—there are also others there of 1919—required no representational display; they are almost ‘pure’ engineering in concrete. But the lightness of their walls, pierced with abstract patterns formed by ventilating holes, and the elegance of their thin shell vaults of segmental section displayed the potentialities of a quite new structural aesthetic, at once delicate and precise, with no echoes at all of the massive masonry buildings of the past.

The interior of the Esders Clothing Factory at 78 Avenue Philippe-Auguste in Paris, erected just after the War in 1919, and several smaller industrial buildings for the metal-working firm of Wallut & Grange at Montataire, Oise, of 1919-21 were more readily studied by younger architects and, in the case of the Esders factory, much grander in scale than the North African warehouses. Even more elegant than the warehouses, and equally ‘pure’, was the atelier of the decorator Durand built in Paris in the Rue Olivier-Métra in 1922. This has a shell vault rising from the floor broken, along one side only, by a long skylight over widely spaced ribs that continue the curve of the vault.

By this time, of course, ferro-concrete was in general use for industrial building throughout most of the western world. In France the vast parabolic-vaulted aircraft hangar at Orly, Seine, designed by the engineer Eugène Freyssinet (1879-1962) in 1916, overshadowed in size and boldness anything built by Perret. This very exceptional utilitarian construction, magnificent in form yet quite without architectural pretension, was destroyed during the Second World War. To Tony Garnier’s work in Lyons we shall turn later.

In America Frank Lloyd Wright used ferro-concrete for his modest E.Z. Polish Factory in Chicago in 1905, just as Ernest L. Ransome was completing the first mature example of a large plant of ferro-concrete frame construction, the United Shoe Machinery Plant in Beverly, Mass., begun in 1903.[397] All over the Middle West, moreover, grain elevators[398] were rising in the form of gigantic linked cylinders. In Switzerland the great engineer Robert Maillart (1872-1940) in his factories and bridges was using concrete in several new ways as different from the elevators as from the usual timber-like frames of the French and the Americans or the shell vaults of Perret and Freyssinet. Everywhere the importance of ferro-concrete as the prime building material of the twentieth century was receiving increasing recognition; for it was a material more universally available than structural steel and also so elastic in its potentialities that these have hardly even yet been adequately explored.[399] In the early twenties, when a younger generation of architects all over Europe turned their major attention to ferro-concrete as the most modern of building materials, Perret was the architect who had the most to offer them—how limited had been Wright’s exploitation of concrete up to this time we shall shortly see (see

## Chapter 19). When Perret erected the church of Notre-Dame at Le Raincy,

S.-et-O., near Paris in 1922-3 concrete came of age as a building material in somewhat the same way that cast iron had done in a series of major English and French edifices of the 1840s (see Chapter 7).

[Illustration:

Figure 37. Auguste Perret: Le Raincy, S.-et-O., Notre-Dame, 1922-3, plan ]

The Le Raincy church is not revolutionary in plan, being a basilica with aisles and an apse; unlike de Baudot’s church, however, it has no specific elements of Gothic reminiscence in the interior (Plate 141). Instead it provides what the medieval builders of Saint-Urbain at Troyes or King’s College Chapel in Cambridge had obviously sought to achieve, a complete cage of glass supported by a minimal skeleton of solid elements. The broad segmental shell vault of the nave, with smaller vaults running crosswise over the aisle bays in the Cistercian way, is carried on no walls at all but only on the slightest of free-standing columns reeded vertically by the forms in which they were cast (Figure 37). Quite separate from this supporting skeleton is the continuous enclosing screen of pre-cast concrete units, pierced and filled with coloured glass designed by Maurice Denis. This is carried round the entire rectangle of interior space and bowed out at the east end in a segmental curve to form a shallow apse behind the altar. Only at the front is the clarity of the conception compromised by the awkward impingement of the clusters of columns that shoot up to form the tower.

Deserting the dilute Classicism that was his natural bent, Perret allowed the clustered piers of his tower to rise into the sky, supporting nothing at the top, in order to approximate the outline of a Gothic spire. Even more than in the interior, where one is aware only of the lowest stage, the verticalism and the medieval suggestion of this feature, so over-ingeniously composed of standard ferro-concrete elements, seems quite at odds with the severe concrete-and-glass box that provides the body of the church. Few other ferro-concrete churches[400] of the twenties, least of all Perret’s own Sainte-Thérèse at Montmagny, S.-et-O., of 1925-6 and other French ones by his imitators, rival Notre-Dame at Le Raincy. The largest and boldest, Sankt Antonius at Basel in Switzerland, built by Karl Moser (1860-1936) in 1926-7, seems somewhat heavy and factory-like. Its plain rectangular tower, however, rising free at one corner of the church, is much simpler and more original than Perret’s spire and has been frequently and successfully emulated by other architects. Of quite a different order are the Expressionist churches of the German Dominikus Böhm, which have, in the long run, had at least as wide an influence (see Chapters 20 and 25).

Two remodelled Paris banks, one of 1922 for the Société Marseillaise de Crédit in the Rue Auber and another of 1925 for the Crédit National Hôtelier, gave evidence of Perret’s capacity to extend the implications of ferro-concrete design to more conventional problems. These interiors are almost wholly devoid of ornament, and they largely depend for their effectiveness, like the foyer of the Théâtre des Champs Élysées, upon the careful proportioning of the exposed elements of the skeleton construction. In 1924 the Palais de Bois, a temporary exhibition building at the Porte Maillot in Paris, showed how this sense of direct structural expression could be exploited in a building all of timber. This was much more successful than the theatre that Perret built in 1924-5 for the Paris Exposition des Arts Décoratifs. Of a quite different order was the Tour d’Orientation at Grenoble, also of 1924-5. Here Perret was far happier in achieving something comparable to the richness of medieval spires with standard structural elements and pre-cast panels than in the tower of his church at Le Raincy, for this is much more structurally conceived and quite devoid of Gothic reminiscence in the outline.

The mid twenties also brought to Perret, by this time widely recognized in advanced circles as the leading French architect, several commissions for houses, chiefly for artists, in France and even as far afield as Egypt. Characteristically French in his preoccupation with large, not to say monumental, problems, house-design was not Perret’s forte in the way it was that of his American and Austrian contemporaries Wright and Loos. Moreover by this date certain younger architects, particularly Le Corbusier and two or three others in Paris, had set under way a revolution in domestic architecture as drastic as Wright’s of twenty-five years earlier (see Chapter 22).

Perret’s best houses, such as the Mouron house at Versailles of 1926 or the Nubar house in the Rue du 19 Janvier at Garches of 1930, have an almost eighteenth-century dignity and serenity. The ‘stripped-Classical’ apparatus of terminal cornices, _encadrements_ around the openings, and occasional free-standing columns is doubtless logical as an expression of the construction, but it is also very conservative in effect. Yet the ferro-concrete construction encouraged Perret to introduce very wide openings leading out on to surrounding terraces and to open up the main living areas even more than he had done in the flats of 1902-3 in the Rue Franklin. Such treatments were still rather advanced for Europe, however common they may have been in America for a quarter of a century and more. The characteristic quality of Perret’s domestic work is seen at its best in a small block of flats at 9 Place de la Porte de Passy in Paris facing the Bois de Boulogne that he built in 1930 (Plate 139B). This has a façade towards the park so superbly proportioned that it might almost be by Schinkel and a flow of space inside the individual flats that is worthy of Wright, although much more formal in organization.

Now Perret began to receive the official commissions that are generally given in France only to men well on in years. The building designed in 1929 that he erected for the technical services of the Ministry of Marine in the Boulevard Victor in Paris is one of the largest and most typical of his later works (Plate 140B). The complex rhythms and subtle three-dimensional play of this façade are entirely produced by the actual structural elements. The skeleton divides the long façades into a series of horizontal panels within which are set the vertical frames of the windows separated by pre-cast slabs; in one storey the windows even extend the full width of the bays.

To a considerable extent Perret had succeeded in achieving what he had long consciously sought, that is, a vocabulary of design in concrete as direct, as expressive, and as ordered as the masonry vocabulary of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries—a _style Louis XX_, so to say—still very French in a quite traditional way, yet unmistakably of this century. In the Garde Meuble or National Furniture Storehouse in the Rue Croulebarbe in Paris, begun the next year, the vocabulary is—from principle—all but identical; yet fewer windows and more solid panels were necessary here so that the general effect is flatter and blanker. The curved colonnade across the open side of the court is almost archaeologically reminiscent of the eighteenth century, despite the breadth of its spans and the ingenuity of its detailing. The small concert hall of 1929 in the Rue Cardinet for the École Normale de Musique is less pretentious but also less impressive.

Concrete to Perret, after all these years of employing it, was not a crude or a substitute material. By the use of coloured aggregates which he found various means of exposing he was able to vary the texture and colour of his poured and pre-cast elements with considerable subtlety and elegance. In the later buildings the workmanship is usually of the highest quality—it was by no means so in the early twenties—with arrises brought to a sharp edge in pure cement and such classicizing details as the flute-like facets on piers and the capital-like treatment of their tops carried to a finish comparable to that of chisel-cut freestone.

Thus Perret was eventually able to avoid the industrial brutality of much work in concrete where the material is left as it comes from rough timber forms with crumbling arrises and pockmarked surfaces. Such lack of finish is acceptable in large-scale engineering work but certainly awkward when seen close to as in Notre-Dame at Le Raincy. On the other hand, Perret kept well away also from that slickness of surface—especially popular with younger architects in the twenties—that is produced when concrete is covered with a smooth stucco rendering and painted.[401] Such slickness is, of course, generally very soon lost as the original surface grows cracked and stained; only too rarely is it properly maintained by frequent patching and repainting. Concrete was to Perret a worthy material, like stone, and therefore deserved the effort and the cost required to give it an expressive finish requiring little or no maintenance.

The reticulated wall system of the big government buildings was also used for a block of flats at 51-55 Rue Raynouard, built in 1932, where Perret himself lived and also maintained his atelier. The necessary adaptation of his formalized open planning to a trapezoidal site produced suites of interior space of considerable complexity yet perfect orderliness. Though Perret was still without a governmental diploma, the atelier[402] he ran here was associated with the École des Beaux-Arts. It almost seemed now as if he wished to demonstrate how much truer a representative he was of real French tradition than those who were its official, though unworthy, custodians. Thus the older he grew the farther his work drew away from that of the more revolutionary modern architects of the second generation. By 1930 it had definitely begun to date; yet it was only in the last twenty-five years of his life that there came to him the greatest opportunities of realizing his ambitions for French twentieth-century architecture.

In comparison with Perret’s own pioneering of 1902-22 his late work seems to lack vitality. For all the thought that went into its finish, for all the virtuosity of certain features—such as the self-supporting curve of the broad stair that spirals down into his atelier in the Rue Raynouard—his very ambition to create a new French tradition gave his later buildings something of the banality of those designed by the more conventionally ‘traditional’ architects of his generation. This applies in particular to his principal work of the thirties in Paris, the still unfinished Musée des Travaux-Publics in the Avenue du Président-Wilson which he began in 1937. Here the ingeniously pseudo-Classical—yet also truly structural—apparatus of external engaged columns and the intricate plan spreading out from a circular auditorium at the apex of the site are quite in the Beaux-Arts manner. But the grandeur of scale in the interiors and the exciting upward sweep of the boldly curving stairs lend value, and even novelty, to a scheme that is in many ways extremely conservative.

After the Second World War Perret was asked to provide plans for the rebuilding of several bombed cities: Le Havre in 1945; Amiens in 1947; and the Vieux-Port district of Marseilles in 1951. For Amiens he designed a skyscraper, long physically complete but still unoccupied, that derives more from his decorative Tour d’Orientation at Grenoble than from the skyscrapers of the New World. This is one of his few complete failures, if for no other reason than the competition its tall and awkward silhouette offers to the cathedral, whose towers had so long dominated the city’s skyline. The executed Marseilles buildings are not of his design any more than are most of those at Amiens.

At Le Havre, however, his control of the rebuilding was more complete. The Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, or at least the three sides completed between 1948 and 1950 by his associates, outweighs by a great deal the failure of the Amiens skyscraper (Plate 140A). Ranges of four-storey buildings, all carried out in the reticulated vocabulary of his Government buildings of the early thirties in Paris, surround a large sunken plaza; the Hôtel de Ville in the near-Beaux-Arts manner of his Musée des Travaux Publics occupies the fourth side. Shops open towards the square under a continuous colonnade. Behind, rising out of small courts, are taller towers occupied by flats; these lend great three-dimensional interest to the formal and absolutely symmetrical layout of this section of the rebuilt quarter. Since his death similar ranges of buildings have been carried out along the quais to the south. On the whole the extensive work of the team[403] is superior to the public monuments by their captain, the Hôtel de Ville and the church of St Joseph, both designed in 1950 and completed before Perret’s death in 1954.

Impressive as is Perret’s Le Havre in the international roster of post-war urban rebuilding, it seems curiously out of date today, a mere realization in the 1940s and 1950s, one might almost say, of the aspirations of the early decades of the century. Since that period had few such opportunities as was Perret’s here to realize urbanism on this scale, however, what he accomplished there is a welcome addition to the city-building achievements of this century.

Until the second generation appeared on the scene in the twenties France produced little modern architecture of much interest besides Perret’s work. The department stores of the early years of the century, still strongly under the influence of the Art Nouveau, have already been mentioned (see Chapter 17). After Perret the most important architect was Tony Garnier (1867-1948), and he is of more significance for a vast project that he prepared in his youth than for the executed work of his maturity. In the later decades of the eighteenth century, when the Romantic Classical revolution in architecture was getting under way, projects were often of more interest than executed buildings for their premonitions of what was to come, and this was particularly true in France. It was true again in the early decades of the twentieth century, down at least to Le Corbusier’s project for the Palace of the League of Nations of 1927-8.

Ledoux’s ‘Ville Idéale’ summarized his own aspirations and also provided a wealth of ideas from which later generations of Romantic Classical architects could draw inspiration. So, at the opening of the twentieth century, Garnier’s very complete scheme for a ‘Cité Industrielle’[404] contained a wealth of ideas on which architects drew well into the 1920s. Like that of the ‘Ville Idéale’, the interest of the ‘Cité Industrielle’ is threefold: sociological, urbanistic, and architectural. Henceforth the industrial city would be more and more accepted as normal and not exceptional. Its needs both general and specific—so notably recognized by Garnier, all the way from the provision of adequate workers’ housing to various sorts of industrial plants—would become more and more important preoccupations of most modern architects. In coping generally with the manifold needs of an industrial community Garnier also faced in detail many very different individual architectural problems with considerable ingenuity.

Garnier’s solutions in the main were very simple and direct, but they often had a merely negative character, as of buildings of academic design scraped of all surface paraphernalia, rather than displaying any fresh and creative approach. But an important part of the main architectural development for some twenty years was to be such a purging of inherited excess. Garnier reduced architecture to basic, if not

## particularly unfamiliar, terms; on his foundations the next generation

began, in the twenties, to build something much more positive; thus his influence was parallel to that of Loos (see Chapters 20 and 21). His contribution to the twentieth century’s repertory of forms was less than Ledoux’s had been to that of the nineteenth a hundred years earlier; notably inferior in quality to Ledoux’s was his own actual production, moreover.

Garnier’s appointment as Architect of the City of Lyons in 1905, a position which he retained until 1919, might seem to have provided the perfect opportunity to realize his dreams as, but for the Revolution, should Ledoux’s appointment by Louis XV to build the Royal Saltworks at Arc-et-Senans. But neither the Municipal Slaughterhouse of Lyons at La Mouche, executed in 1909-13, the Herriot Hospital at Grange-Blanche, designed in 1911 and begun in 1915, nor the Olympic Stadium of 1913-16 at Lyons realize much more than the obvious practical implications of the detailed projects for various buildings in his ‘Cité Industrielle’.[405] The slaughterhouse is bold structurally but clumsily industrial in its handling, with none of the refinement of Perret’s factories; the more highly finished stadium has irrelevant Classical touches in the detailing, simple though it is, of the concrete elements.

Garnier’s work after the First World War began with the hospital, which was completed only in 1930, and included a large low-cost housing project in the États-Unis quarter of Lyons designed as early as 1920 but executed only in 1928-30. Both are quite overshadowed by the comparable work of the next generation in these years—that in other countries at least, if not that in France. The Moncey Telephone Office at Lyons of 1927, the Textile School at La Croix-Rousse of 1930, and the Hôtel de Ville of the Paris suburb of Boulogne-Billancourt of 1931-4, on which another architect, J.-H.-E. Debat-Ponsan (b. 1882), a pupil of Victor Laloux, collaborated, differ very little from the scraped academicism of most French public architecture of this period. The houses Garnier built in 1909 at St-Rambert and in 1910 at St-Cyr (Mont d’Or) are among his best executed works; all the same, except for their early date, they are hardly very notable.

Two blocks of flats built by Henri Sauvage (1873-1932) in 1925 in the Rue des Amiraux and in the Rue Vavin in Paris, faced with glazed white brick and stepped back in section to provide terraces for the upper floors, are well above the level of quality of Garnier’s later work without approaching that of Perret’s. That in the Rue des Amiraux, being for working-class occupancy, is more significant of the international aspirations of the period. Although less drastically novel than the low-cost housing of the twenties in Holland and Germany, this has survived very well because of its permanent grime-proof surfacing. It has been rather unjustly forgotten, largely because it lies off the main line of international development (see Chapter 21).

Most French production in the twenties remained completely subject to academic discipline although it was often tricked out with the sort of modish decoration that flourished particularly at the Paris Exposition des Arts Décoratifs of 1925. Yet at the same time Paris, as the world capital of modern art, was one of the three great foci of architectural advance. The linkage between advanced painting and the Art Nouveau in the nineties was discussed earlier (see Chapter 16). Perret employed Symbolist and Neo-Impressionist painters as collaborators, beginning with the Théâtre des Champs Élysées before the First World War. But there is no real parallel between his architecture and that of Garnier or Sauvage on the one hand and the art of the great twentieth-century masters of the École de Paris on the other. Picasso, Gris, Braque, Matisse, and Derain had no effective influence on architecture. Characteristically Perret employed Bourdelle, not Maillol, when he needed sculpture. With the next generation the situation entirely changed; but the new architects of the twenties, not only in France but everywhere, for all their greater sophistication and their close association with advanced painters and sculptors, still owed at least as much to Perret and to Garnier if not to Sauvage.

To the most creative new architects who appeared around 1920 Garnier’s project for the ‘Cité Industrielle’ offered both a challenge and an inspiration, but Perret was by far the more important influence. Somewhat later, towards 1930, that influence became almost ubiquitous in France, and its effect grew increasingly banal as the ferro-concrete Classicism of Perret’s later work gradually replaced the official and inherited tradition of the École des Beaux-Arts, by that time nearly obsolete even in France.[406] As has so often happened in France before, a youthful rebel, after being accepted late in life by the academic authorities, was only too ready to support a new discipline that had itself already become academic. Thus is cultural continuity maintained in France at the expense of variety and recurrent new growth. The situation was rather different in America, as we shall soon see.

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## CHAPTER 19

FRANK LLOYD WRIGHT AND HIS CALIFORNIA CONTEMPORARIES

WRIGHT in America found himself, in his seventies, as generally accepted a master as did Perret in France, but his influence never became at all academic in the way of Perret’s after 1930. There could hardly be a greater contrast between the careers of two contemporaries in the same field. Both were very productive over a length of time that is more than a third of the whole period covered by this book, but this is about all that they did have in common. Perret’s career progressed gradually over several decades to general and even official acceptance. Wright’s career, on the other hand, had very notable ups and downs, and he only once received a governmental commission.

After the years of preparation discussed earlier (see Chapter 15) there followed some ten years of great success. But this success was largely restricted to a particular region, the Middle West, and to a particular field, the building of good-sized suburban houses. Following that, in a decade interrupted by the First World War, Wright’s influence rapidly increased, not at home but abroad, although he had considerably fewer, if much larger, commissions. Then, paradoxically, in the twenties, while the United States swung into the biggest building boom in history, there began a decade in which Wright’s production all but ceased. Many assumed that his career had closed and that his work had passed into history as had Voysey’s and Mackintosh’s by that time. This, of course, was not at all true. In the mid thirties Wright’s activity revived, and his production continued at a rising rate until his death. Moreover, there was little sign of any decline into personal academicism such as marked the late work of Perret in the same decades.

Where Perret had, in effect, only a double architectural career, being largely occupied on the one hand with industrial commissions close to the dividing line between architecture and engineering, and on the other hand with public buildings, Wright’s career was increasingly multifarious. Beginning chiefly as a domestic architect, he never ceased to build houses; but by the 1950s there were few fields, including that of urbanism, which he had not entered, if only to present challenging projects and announce controversial theses. Disciple of a great skyscraper architect, author of a succession of skyscraper projects, Wright had to wait a full half century after Sullivan completed his last skyscraper in Chicago before he built his first, the Price Tower in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, in 1953-5. Some of his planning projects may yet come to posthumous execution, and his work at Florida Southern College at least was of urbanistic scope.

Perret consciously summarized and continued earlier French tradition; but Wright wished to initiate a new tradition, one which he preferred to call ‘Usonian’ rather than American. Perret’s disciples, emulators, and imitators in his later years were able to take control of French architecture to a quite considerable extent. Wright’s disciples, despite the fifty years during which he maintained offices that were also training ateliers in Oak Park, in Chicago, in Tokyo, in Wisconsin, and in Arizona, have only rarely made any significant mark of their own; nor has his influence had much more specific effect on the character of modern architecture in America than it has had generically on that of the world outside. Where Perret’s influence, particularly outside France, has been largely restricted to architects working with ferro-concrete, the material that he was the first to master architecturally—and even in concrete construction this influence has inhibited as often as it has liberated—Wright’s influence has been protean on the international scene. From the day when the German publisher Wasmuth first made Wright’s work available to Europeans at the opening of the second decade of the century this has been true, down to the time, a decade ago, when the Italian architect, critic, and historian Bruno Zevi (b. 1918) tried to invert chronology so that Wright’s ‘architettura organica’[407] might seem to succeed rather than to precede the ‘funzionalismo’ or ‘International Style’ of the second generation of modern architects.

Before turning to a more detailed consideration of Wright’s work after 1900 one further comparison with the _œuvre_ of Perret may be made. Although Wright never confined himself to one material or to one method of construction—indeed, his versatility in this respect continued to increase right down to his death—he was from the first especially interested in the possibilities of concrete. He published in _The Brickbuilder_ for August 1901 a project for a small village bank, still very Sullivanian in its rich detailing, that was intended to be executed entirely in concrete. This was only two years after Perret had first used the material with little or no attempt to develop its architectural possibilities and a year before his block of flats in the Rue Franklin was designed. His E.-Z. Polish Factory of 1905 at 3005-17 West Carroll Avenue in Chicago has already been mentioned. The Unity Church in Oak Park of 1906 (Plate 143B), entirely of concrete surfaced with a special pebble aggregate and decorated with integral ornament, precedes by many years Perret’s church at Le Raincy (Plate 141). Perret’s ultimate development of various refined finishes for exposed concrete came still later. Admittedly, however, the Oak Park church is a much smaller and less striking edifice than Perret’s; and the work of Kahn and other industrial architects soon overshadowed Wright’s modest factory. Moreover, it was only with the twenties that Wright, like the Europeans, really gave major attention to building in concrete.

Wright’s creative powers in the first decade of this century were largely concentrated on his ‘Prairie Houses’. Their essentials were already present in the two Kankakee houses of 1900 (Plate 142A) and the first house designed for the _Ladies Home Journal_ (see Chapter 15). But these essentials received more masterly—one might well say more classic—expression two years later. The large W. W. Willitts house at 715 South Sheridan Road in Highland Park, Ill., of 1902 is of wooden-stud construction, but covered like the Kankakee houses with stucco (Plate 142B). The C. S. Ross house off the South Shore Road on Lake Delavan in Wisconsin, also of 1902, has the rough board-and-batten sheathing of the River Forest Golf Club (Plates 143A and 128B). Both offer versions of the cruciform plan (Figure 38) with the interior space ‘flowing’ round a central chimney core and also extended outward on to covered verandas and open terraces quite as in Price’s Tuxedo Park houses of fifteen years earlier (Figure 28).

[Illustration:

Figure 38. Frank Lloyd Wright: Highland Park, Ill., W. W. Willitts house, 1902, plan ]

Another major work of 1902 is the Arthur Heurtley house at 318 Forest Avenue in Oak Park, Ill. There the principal living areas, which are on the upper floor as in the Husser house of 1899, form an articulated L-shaped within the basic square that is defined by the overhanging roof. The brick walls of the lower storey have broad projecting horizontal bands and the wide, low entrance arch remains quite Richardsonian. The upper storey consists largely of continuous ranges of wooden-mullioned casement windows.

No notable progression is observable in the series of suburban houses built during the remainder of this decade before Wright went to Europe in 1909; but he produced many other brilliant illustrations of both the cruciform and the square plan as well as a more elongated sort extending along a single axis. Of the many fine examples of the Willitts or Ross type around Chicago, the small house for Isabel Roberts at 603 Edgewood Place in River Forest of 1908 is one of the best; there the living room in the front wing is carried up two storeys, as was proposed for one version of the _Ladies Home Journal_ house. The larger F. J. Baker house at 507 Lake Avenue in Wilmette of 1909 also has a two-storeyed living room; but here the tall cross element of the plan which this feature provides was moved to one end of the house so that the plan is of a T or L shape rather than cruciform.

The E. H. Cheney house at 520 North East Avenue in Oak Park of 1904 is square like the Heurtley house near by. It is raised off the ground on a sort of extended square stylobate so that the living area, which runs all across the front as at the Hickox house, can open freely through french doors on to the walled terrace in front. In the T. P. Hardy house at 1319 South Main Street in Racine, Wis., of 1905 a declivitous lakeside site encouraged a vertical rather than a horizontal organization of the interior with a two-storey living room as the spatial core.

A very different feeling pervades the small, squarish house at 6 Elizabeth Court in Oak Park that Wright built for Mrs Thomas Gale in 1909. Here flat slabs—which had been proposed as early as 1902 in a project (perhaps for execution in concrete) for the Yahara Boat Club in Madison, Wis.—replace the low-pitched hip or gable roofs of the characteristic Prairie Houses. Moreover, parapeted balconies and other simple rectangular features elaborate plastically the composition in a fashion that suggests the abstract sculpture of a decade later in Europe (see Chapter 21).

The W. A. Glasner house of 1905 at 850 Sheridan Road in Glencoe, Ill., on the contrary was extended longitudinally and the living area for the first time not at all articulated but completely unified (Figure 39). Something of the same longitudinal extension marks the much larger F. C. Robie house at 5757 Woodlawn Avenue in Chicago of 1909. But there the living room and dining room are separated by the chimney core and raised above the ground level. Built of fine Roman brick, this is the most monumental of these early houses. The long horizontal lines of the balcony below and the roof above dominate the composition; yet a cross element comes forward in the upper storeys to provide, less symmetrically than in his houses of cruciform plan, something of the abstract plasticity of the Gale house.

[Illustration:

Figure 39. Frank Lloyd Wright: Glencoe, Ill., W. A. Glasner house, 1905, plan ]

Another large house of the end of the decade, the Avery Coonley house at 300 Scottswood Road in Riverside, Ill., of 1908, offers a quite different and much more extended plan. The square block containing the living room rises above a terrace and a reflecting pool as the main element of the design, but from this block two long wings project. That to the left includes a large dining room and also very extensive service facilities at the rear; in the one to the right are the master’s suite and other bedrooms. Thus the house is, in a later phrase of Wright’s, ‘zoned’ according to function. The upper walls of this house are covered with a geometrical pattern produced by setting coloured tiles into the stucco. Wright never did quite the same thing again, but this led the way to his use of patterned concrete blocks a few years later.

Two of Wright’s non-domestic works of this period are of considerable importance. Unity Church in Oak Park has already been mentioned; the other was the Larkin Administration Building in Buffalo, N.Y., of 1904. Massive and even sculptural externally, particularly at the ends, this had a tall glass-roofed court running down the centre, around which the upper ranges of offices extended on galleries carried by somewhat Sullivanian piers. All the fittings of the offices, including the steel furniture—probably the first to be designed by an architect—were Wright’s. Thus he set here a wholly new standard of elegance, consistency, and coherence in semi-industrial building.

Within the massive slab-roofed block of the Unity Temple (Plate 143B), which is echoed beyond a low entrance link by the smaller block of the Sunday School, Wright achieved even more notably than inside the Larkin Building a new sort of monumental space-composition such as even his biggest houses hardly provided room for. The square auditorium with incut corners has double galleries on three sides and a pulpit platform on the fourth, behind which rises the organ. The multiple spatial elements seem to cross one another at different levels in a sort of three-dimensional plaid. Moreover, this theme is echoed in all the minor features, such as the wood stripping of the sand-finished plaster walls and the prominent lighting fixtures. Of this spatial development there had been some premonition in the auditorium block at one end of the Hillside House School that he built for his aunts outside Spring Green, Wis., in 1902; but there the masonry of the exterior walls and piers was still rather Richardsonian and the internal gallery consisted of a square set lozenge-wise.

Wright’s work down to 1910 was made available to Europeans by two publications of Wasmuth, the Berlin publisher; and the end of the first decade of the century does, coincidentally, mark a real turning point in his career. He would not be so prolific again before the forties; and henceforth, although he never ceased to build houses, these would no longer constitute the bulk of his production.

The production of the next decade, after his return from Europe in 1911, opens with two houses, however. Taliesin, which he built outside Spring Green for his mother in 1911, was soon much enlarged when he moved there himself and it always remained his principal residence. As a result of the growing needs of his family and of his school—not to speak of two major fires in 1914 and 1925—the Taliesin of today is very different, above all in its endless ramification, from what he planned in 1911; but the vocabulary of materials and design stayed more or less constant through all the years. Where the Prairie Houses echoed in their horizontal lines the flat Illinois terrain on which most of them were set, Taliesin is wrapped around a hill-top just below the crest. The use of various levels in the interior and a landscape-like elaboration of the low-pitched roofs represent his response to this more interesting site; after that the ‘Prairie’ master avoided flat sites for houses whenever he could!

Taliesin, combining a house, drawing-office, living accommodation for apprentices, and even farm buildings, had from almost the first a complex plan not readily definable as square, cruciform, or unilinear. But in a project of the same year 1911 in which Taliesin was originally built, that for the S. M. Booth house at Glencoe, Ill.—never executed, unfortunately, according to these plans—a new sort of organization appeared, related to the elaborated cube of the Gale house and also to the ‘zoned’ scheme of the Coonley house. A two-storey living-room was to provide both the spatial and the plastic core; from this wings serving different purposes would shoot out swastika-like.

The relative homogeneity of Wright’s production in the first decade of the century, following after the gradual convergence of his early work during the nineties, is explained by the nearly identical problems and sites that he faced in designing the houses mentioned so far. This homogeneity now gave way to an increasing variety that makes it difficult to summarize the work of these years. The Coonley Playhouse, built on the Coonley estate at Riverside in 1912, bears little resemblance to the original house of four years earlier. The plan is cruciform and symmetrical; but what is new here is the way the slab roofs, set at two different levels and pierced through their wide projections in order to let light reach the windows below, were used to achieve an even more boldly sculptural quality than in the project of 1902 for the Yahara Boat Club or the Gale house of 1909. Wright’s mastery of abstract decoration was wholly mature by this time. From the first he had used leaded glass in simple geometrical patterns in his windows,[408] but the windows in this playhouse are the finest of all. Moreover, these festive compositions of circles of coloured glass arranged asymmetrically resemble quite closely the abstract paintings that such artists as Kupka, Delaunay, and the Constructivists would shortly be producing in Europe.

Northome, the F. W. Little house at Wayzata, Minn., of 1913, is also quite different from all the earlier houses, yet not at all similar to the Coonley Playhouse. Raised on a ridge above the southern shore of Lake Minnetonka, this house consists of a series of pavilions—some open, some closed—strung along a single axis parallel to the water’s edge. That containing the living room, which is of almost monumental size and scale, dominates the whole. Wright seemed able now to invent a new mode almost with every individual commission, each one with potentialities as great as those of the Prairie Houses he had so thoroughly exploited in the decade before 1910.

The major work of the immediate pre-war years, the Midway Gardens of 1913-14 on the Midway south of Chicago, is rather hard to define precisely. Not quite a beer or _Heuriger_ garden, nor yet a music-hall or cabaret in the ordinary European sense, the establishment consisted of a large outdoor dining and entertainment area with raised terraces on two sides, a stage and orchestra shed at the far end, and a closed restaurant block towards the street. Here Wright’s ambitions as a decorative artist could have free play. Abstract compositions of coloured circles like those in the windows of the Coonley Playhouse appeared here as wall-high murals at the ends of the covered restaurant. Moreover, the sculptural implications of the general composition of the playhouse were carried farther in the openwork ‘constructions’ that he set on the tops of the towers. At the same time he introduced a great deal of figurative sculpture stylized in a rather Cubist way. Thus several different aspects of the abstract and near-abstract art which was just coming into independent existence in Europe were closely paralleled in the adjuncts to Wright’s architecture here.

More architectonic patterns produced by simple geometrical means also ran riot at the Midway Gardens. Notable and significant was the use of extensive areas of patterned concrete blocks; these were somewhat like the patterned upper walls of the Coonley house of 1908 but all monochrome. The early demolition of the Midway Gardens makes it difficult to know whether this tremendous elaboration of the decorative aspects of Wright’s architecture was symphonic or cacophonous in total effect. Whatever the degree of their success or their failure, however, they opened a sort of ‘Mannerist’ or ‘Baroque’[409] period in his career that was destined to last for more than a decade.

During the First World War, in 1915, Wright was approached by emissaries of the Japanese Imperial Household to design and build the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo. Proceeding to Japan, Wright was largely concerned with this commission for the next seven years, finally bringing it to completion in 1922. This is the principal production of his ‘Baroque’ phase. It was also a notable engineering triumph, for his ingenious use of concrete slabs carried on a multitude of concrete piles brought it safely through the earthquake of 1923. Paul Mueller, the engineer of the old Adler & Sullivan office, was his collaborator here.

Abstract ornament proliferated on the hotel; some of it, carved in greenish lava, elaborates the garden courts of the vast H-shaped plan; still more is painted in gold and colour on the ceilings of the principal interiors. Moreover, the massive proportions of the masonry walls produce an effect of castle-like solidity wholly inexpressive of the method of their support and very far removed from the light and floating character of the Prairie Houses. On the whole this hotel represents, far more than the Midway Gardens, a cul-de-sac in Wright’s development.

Overlapping the period of construction of the Imperial Hotel came a series of houses in southern California in which the ‘Baroque’ element was gradually restrained. The earliest of these, Hollyhock House in Los Angeles and two smaller houses near by, were built for Aline Barnsdall in 1920 on a large estate bounded by Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards, Edgemont Street, and Vermont Avenue. These are of poured concrete very massively handled and carry considerable abstract sculptural ornamentation. For a slightly later series of four houses around Los Angeles, beginning with the house of 1923 for Mrs G. M. Millard at 645 Prospect Crescent in Pasadena, Wright developed a type of concrete-block construction with reinforcement in the joints that was of considerable technical interest and also offered special decorative possibilities. The idea of using concrete blocks cast with relief patterns of geometrical character goes back to the Midway Gardens, however, and walls covered with repeating ornamental units had first appeared at the Coonley house.

[Illustration:

Figure 40. Frank Lloyd Wright: Pasadena, Cal., Mrs G. M. Millard house, 1923, plans ]

In the Millard house, particularly, the scale of the moulded blocks and the ingenious inclusion of pierced units—very similar to the pre-cast elements that Perret was using for the screen walls of his Le Raincy church at just this time—produced a masterpiece (Plate 144). This house, however, is not solely of interest for its construction and its decoration. In contrast to the horizontal composition of almost all his earlier houses except that in Racine for the Hardys, this is a tall vertical block, entered at the middle level, with the dining room and kitchen below and the two-storey living room opening out to a balcony at the front (Figure 40). The main bedroom is reached from a gallery overhanging the rear of the living-room. Both organizationally and visually this represents a surprising change, and the result closely resembled what a leading architect of the second generation had just then been proposing in Europe (Figure 45). There are, for instance, no hovering eaves here; instead a parapet continues the wall plane upwards and confines a roof terrace. This is as close as Wright ever came to building a ‘box-on-stilts’, his term of abuse for the advanced European houses of the twenties. It was as if, after the expansiveness of his work from the Midway Gardens to Hollyhock House, Wright wished to prove here his capacity to produce a house modest in scale and compact in section as well as in plan.

In the next decade, from 1924 to 1934, Wright’s actual production declined almost to zero although he was working on a series of important projects, some of which later provided the basis for executed buildings. Taliesin was rebuilt after a fire in 1925, however—it had already been rebuilt once before after an earlier fire in 1914—and a large house of concrete blocks, with almost no use of pattern except for occasional pierced grilles, was erected for his cousin Richard Lloyd Jones in 1929 at 3700 Birmingham Road in Tulsa, Okla. That is about all.

The small M. C. Willey house of 1934 at 255 Bedford Street, S.E., in Minneapolis marked the beginning of what proved to be almost a second career for Wright. Low and L-shaped, with practically no ornament whatsoever, this modest brick house introduced a major change in domestic planning. Not only are the living room and the dining room completely unified, as was first done at the Glasner house in 1905, but the kitchen—now re-christened ‘work-space’—opens into the main living area behind a range of glazed shelves (Figure 41). Thirty years later the full implications of this development are still not quite digested in America or even fully apprehended abroad; on the contrary, a reaction from open planning has perhaps begun.

It was not the Willey house, however, modest in size and very quiet in expression for all its revolutionary plan, that signalized the renewal of Wright’s activity. That he could take up his career again at the highest level of creativity became apparent to everyone with the construction of two much larger buildings both designed in 1936. Falling Water, a large house in the Pennsylvania woods, is cantilevered over a waterfall with a sense of drama even Wright had never hitherto approached. The Administration Building for the S. C. Johnson Wax Company at 1525 Howe Street in Racine, Wis., his first semi-industrial commission since the Larkin Building of 1904, was built in 1937-9. Both are as remarkable for the technical boldness of their use of concrete—totally different in the two cases—as for their design.

[Illustration:

Figure 41. Frank Lloyd Wright: Minneapolis, M. C. Willey house, 1934, plan ]

Falling Water has a rear section built of rough stone which rises like a tower from the native rock on the banks of Bear Run. From this solid vertical core are cantilevered out a series of concrete slabs bounded by plain parapets at their edges. This produces a very complex horizontal composition related to, but infinitely elaborated from, that of the Gale house of 1909 (Plate 145A). The completely unified living space is closed in by stone walls on the inner or dining side. It also extends out over the waterfall; the all-glass walls on that side, with their thin metal mullions, hardly seem to separate the interior space at all from that of the open terraces outside. A similar relationship exists between the bedrooms and their terraces on the upper floors.

Never before had Wright exploited the structural possibilities of concrete so boldly. In this amazingly plastic composition—if ‘plastic’ be the word for anything so light and suspended in appearance—it seems as if he had determined to outbid the European architects of the second modern generation at their own games (see Chapter 22). His early work has, in the clarity and axial character of the organization and the serenity of its expression, a classic if hardly a Classical quality; his work of 1914-24 shows a Baroque exuberance in the proliferation of the ornament. Now that he was approaching seventy his Romantic or anti-Classical tendencies—call them what you will—reached an intensity of purely architectonic expression comparable to the musical intensity of the late quartets of Beethoven that Wright so much admired. Falling Water, which might easily have been the swan song of Wright’s career, soon to be halted again by a second World War, proved in fact but the opening _allegro_ in a new period of innovation and experiment.

The Johnson Building is very different from Falling Water. In it the curve rather than the cantilever provides the principal theme, and enclosure rather than interpenetration of exterior and interior space controls both the planning and the design (Plate 146A). The main office area is tall and unified, but it is filled with a forest of inverse-tapered concrete piers rising from tiny bronze shoes to carry circular slabs of concrete whose edges all but touch. The spaces between these lilypad-like disks were filled with tubes of Pyrex glass, and bands of similar tubes are carried around the building below the balcony and at the top of the plain red brick walls to provide additional natural light. In the more specialized adjuncts to the general office area curved and diagonal plan-elements lend a machine-like elegance to the shape of the building as a whole. Additional bands of glass tubing interrupt the smooth and continuous masonry surfaces at intervals, thus clearly indicating that these portions are of several storeys.

Falling Water and the Johnson Building were large and expensive structures; so also was Wingspread, the H. F. Johnson house that Wright built in Racine at the same time. This is zoned in the manner of the Booth project of 1911 around a tall central core. But in 1937 Wright also erected the first of what he called his ‘Usonian’ houses, the Herbert Jacobs house at Westmorland, near Madison, Wis. This modest L-shaped dwelling, with wooden ‘sandwich’ walls and a flat wooden slab roof, carried farther than the Willey house the integration of the ‘work-space’ or kitchen with the main living area. Here this rises in a masonry tower and is lighted by a clerestory, yet it is closely related to the space of the interior as a whole. A very considerable range of Wright’s later houses are variants of the Usonian model. Some were built before the War, even more in the last decade; some are of modest dimensions like the Jacobs house, others much larger. They exist in all parts of the United States, including the East, where he had hardly worked at all before this time.

The earlier Usonian houses were designed on a square module. This is true, for example, of the version that he prepared for _Life_ magazine in 1938,[410] which thereby received the same sort of national circulation that the _Ladies Home Journal_ gave to three of his projects more than a generation earlier.[411] But Wright was now interested also in developing the hexagon and the triangle as basic units. Beginning with the Hanna house of 1937 at 737 Coronado Street in Palo Alto, Cal., he continued in many others to explore the possibilities of planning based on 60-30-degree angles.

In the most extraordinary house that he built in these pre-war years, his own winter residence, Taliesin West, begun in 1938 in the desert outside Phoenix, Ariz., 45-degree diagonals are used in the planning and almost all the structural elements are battered or canted. However, it is the materials which give this edifice—like Taliesin itself at once a house, a working place, and a school—its unique qualities. The substructure is of ‘desert concrete’, that is great rough blocks of tawny local stone placed in forms and loosely stuck together, so to say, with concrete; the superstructure is of dark-stained timber frames mostly filled only with canvas to allow a maximum flow of air. As at the original Taliesin in Wisconsin, Wright kept on enlarging Taliesin West, not always to its advantage. Another example of ‘desert-concrete’ construction, the Rose Pauson house of 1940 in Phoenix, was destroyed by fire. It was, in its very sculptural way, a masterpiece of this period unlike anything else he ever built and is still an impressive ruin.

It was characteristic of Wright’s activity in his ‘second’ career that the versatility of his invention knew no bounds. Many earlier ideas that had existed only in projects could come to fruition now that his services were in such demand. At the same time it is hard to believe that in the plain white stucco walls, extensive window bands, and thin roof slab of the E. J. Kaufmann guest house, built just above Falling Water in 1939, or in the G. D. Sturges house of the same year at 449 Skyway Road in Brentwood Heights near Los Angeles, cantilevered out from a hill-slope, Wright was not consciously rivalling the effects of the European architects of the second generation whom he professed to scorn—rivalling them, but also making very much his own such of their effects as he cared to emulate.

Wright did not drop the novel methods of construction that he had developed earlier as he tried out new ones. In his most extensive late commission, the layout of a new campus for Florida Southern College at Lakeland in Florida, begun in 1938, the plan is highly formal at the same time that it is markedly asymmetrical. It thus elaborates upon the angular themes of his project of 1927 for a desert resort at Chandler, Arizona—incidentally the point at which his interest in 60-30-degree angles began. The buildings at Florida Southern, starting with the Ann Pfeiffer Chapel of 1940 to which many more were later added, are mostly of concrete-block construction, but with much less use of patterned elements than in the executed work and projects of the twenties.

The Second World War interrupted Wright’s career less than the First. Various projects initiated in the war years came to fruition soon after the war was over and gave evidence of the continuing vitality of his powers of invention. The second house for Herbert Jacobs at Middleton in the country west of Madison, Wis., was very different from the Usonian one of 1937. Ever since an unexecuted house project of 1938 Wright had been fascinated by the possibilities of using the circle in planning. While he had tried out the form in the Florida Southern Library before the war, the Jacobs house of 1948 was the first of a series of houses that he built with curved plans. Its two-storey living area bends around a circular sunken garden court with the bedrooms opening off a balcony above (Figure 42). On the other side the house is half buried in the hill-top, above which rise its walls of coursed rubble. A tower-like circular core near one end of the convex side provides a strong vertical accent.

Another house of the post-war years, also based on the circle, is quite different in character. The Sol Friedman house in Pleasantville, N.Y., is roofed with mushroom-like concrete slabs; the two intersecting closed circles of the actual dwelling are balanced at the end of a straight terrace parapet by the open circle of the carport (Plate 145B). This was completed in 1949 with battered walls of almost Richardsonian random ashlar masonry below a strip of metal-framed windows. A still later ‘house of circles’ for his son David J. Wright was built near Phoenix, Ariz., in 1952. This is of concrete blocks and raised off the ground, with the approach up a gently sloping helical ramp to the various curved rooms on the first storey. The circle and the helix appear also in an urban building of these years, the shop for V. C. Morris in Maiden Lane, San Francisco, completed in 1949. Here the street façade is a sheer plane of yellow brick broken only by the entrance, which is a Sullivanian—or Richardsonian—arch like that of the Heurtley house of 1902. Inside, a helical ramp rises around the central circular area beneath a ceiling made of bubble-like elements executed in plastics.

[Illustration:

Figure 42. Frank Lloyd Wright: Middleton, Wis., Herbert Jacobs house, 1948, plan ]

A major work of these years, the extension of the Johnson Administration Building in Racine, Wis., also completed in 1949, makes much use of circles also (Plate 146A). North of the existing office building Wright surrounded a square court with open carports whose outer walls of solid brickwork shut out the surrounding city; inside these walls are ranged short concrete columns with lily-pad tops like those in the section that he built ten years earlier. In the centre of the ‘piazza’ thus defined rises a laboratory tower of tree-like structure. The upper floors of this, alternately square with rounded corners and circular, are all cantilevered out from a central cylindrical core which contains the lift and the vertical canalizations. Alternate bands of brickwork and Pyrex tubing, such as were used on the original building, enclose the tower except at ground level; there the space of the court continues under the cantilevered floors above as far as the solid central core.

This relatively modest tower prepared the way for Wright’s skyscraper in Bartlesville, Okla., of 1953-5, which has been mentioned earlier. Actually, however, this Price Tower,[412] which is partly occupied by offices and partly by flats, is the final realization of a project originally prepared in 1929 for a block of flats for St Mark’s Church in New York. This he had elaborated in the intervening years in projects for blocks of flats in Chicago and for a hotel in Washington.

While Wright was continuing to employ in his houses of the late forties and early fifties a variety of modes of design that go back to the thirties, and also developing at Florida Southern and in Bartlesville ideas dating from his inactive period in the late twenties, he continued to strike out in other directions too. The Neils house at 2801 Burnham Boulevard on Cedar Lake in Minneapolis, Minn., completed in 1951, is all of coloured marble rubble provided by the client; the Walker house at Carmel, Cal., completed in 1952, is a glazed polygonal pavilion overhanging the sea. Where the Prairie Houses of the first decade of Wright’s mature career may all seem in retrospect to have come out of the same, or nearly identical, moulds, the many houses designed in his seventies and eighties are notable for the great variety of their siting, their materials, and the geometrical themes of their planning.

Nor was the domestic field anything like the sole area of his activity. In addition to the college buildings, the shop, the skyscraper, and the laboratory that have been mentioned, Wright built during the years 1947-52 a Unitarian church in Madison, Wis., of very original character. The products of his multifarious activity in these years include, moreover, many projects for all sorts of structures, some of which have been completed—notably the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum in New York (Plate 188). A decade and more of designing and redesigning preceded the initiation of this remarkable helical concrete building in 1956. Of three other late projects, those for an opera-house in Baghdad and for an Arizona state capitol in Phoenix, dating from 1957, are unlikely to be built; but the county buildings for Marin County, Cal., are now well advanced.

In spite of so much late activity, greater than that of his early maturity, in spite (or perhaps, in part, because) of its kaleidoscopic variety, Wright’s actual influence was less significant than forty years before; at least it was of a very different order. He still outpaced his juniors both of the next generation and the one after; but few if any were able to follow with any success along the intensely personal paths he opened.[413] Like Perret to the end of his life, Wright continued at ninety to offer an inspiration to all architects, but there has risen no school of imitators to vulgarize his manner as there was long a school of imitators of Perret in France.

In creative power, in productivity, and, over the forty years and more since 1910, in influence, Wright overshadowed all the other American architects of his generation. Inspired by Wright as well as by Sullivan, there flourished for a while a sort of ‘Second Chicago School’ to which Purcell & Elmslie; George W. Maher (1864-1926); Schmidt, Garden & Martin, and several other architects who were active in the Middle West before the First World War may be considered to belong.[414] But this school flickered out in the twenties as most of its members succumbed to the dominant ‘traditionalism’ of the day or else ceased to find clients.[415] Four rather more vital and original architects appeared shortly after 1900 in California: the brothers Greene (Charles S., 1868-1957, and Henry M., 1867-1954), Irving Gill (1870-1936), and Bernard R. Maybeck (1862-1957).[416] But the productive careers of the Greenes, of Gill, and, to a lesser extent, that of Maybeck came pretty much to a close, like those of the Chicagoans, around 1915 with the resounding success of the ‘traditional’ buildings designed by Bertram G. Goodhue (1869-1924) for the San Diego Exhibition of that year.[417] These were in the most ornate sort of Spanish Baroque, quite archaeologically handled; and the emulation of them, which at once became endemic in California, turned most local architects away from innovation for almost twenty years.

Maybeck, who had been a graduate of the École des Beaux-Arts in the eighties, contributed to the San Francisco Exhibition[418] of the same year the still extant Fine Arts Building in an equally ‘traditional’ but more Classical vein. Partly ruined today, his tawny stucco columns and entablatures have the air of a painting by Pannini or Hubert Robert. For all its charm, this was a surprising work to come from a man who had earlier shown himself, in the Christian Science Church of 1910 in Berkeley, Cal., almost as bold an innovator as Wright even though he employed for that a fantastically eclectic vocabulary of reminiscent forms (Plate 146B). Many Berkeley houses, moreover, ranging over several decades in date, also prove Maybeck to have been an architect of great originality and surprising versatility.

In Berkeley also are several houses by John Galen Howard (1864-1931) as well as his building for the University of California’s School of Architecture, of which he was for long the Dean. His building at the University (which has in addition a Faculty Club and one or two other things by Maybeck), the Gregory house of about 1904, and the architect’s own house of 1912 are also notable examples of free design dating from the first decades of the century. Howard’s informal work is more directly related than are Wright’s houses to the Shingle Style of the preceding period, though not specifically to that of Richardson, for whom, however, Howard had actually worked in the mid eighties before he came to California. Most of his work at the University, in fact, is in an Italianate vein, and the campus is dominated by his tall, campanile-like clock tower.

The production of the Greene brothers in this period, entirely domestic and largely in Pasadena, offers a more coherent corpus than that of any modern American architect of their generation except Wright. Related, like the work of Howard, to the Shingle Style, which had been brought to Pasadena and Los Angeles by Eastern architects in the eighties and nineties, the Greenes’ houses are most interesting for their successful assimilation of oriental influences. The best example is the Gamble house at 4 Westmorland Street in Pasadena of 1908-9 (Plate 147A). But the Pitcairn house of 1906 and the Blacker house of 1907, at 289 West State Street and at 1157 Hillcrest respectively, as well as the later Thorsen house of 1909, at 2307 Piedmont Avenue in Berkeley, now a fraternity house, are also excellent.

Shingled walls, low-pitched and wide-spreading gables, and extensive porte-cochères and verandas of stick-work surpassing in virtuosity those of the Stick Style, were combined by the Greenes in rather loosely organized compositions. Less formal and regular than Wright’s Prairie Houses, theirs are executed throughout with a craftsmanship in wood rivalling that of the Japanese, whom they, like Wright, so much admired. The Greenes’ plans are less open than Wright’s, but they made more use of verandas and balconies than he. Superb woodwork and fine stained glass combine with the specially designed furniture in the interiors to produce ensembles of a sturdy elegance hardly matched by any of Wright’s. Those in the Blacker and Thorsen houses, whose clients were both in the lumber business, are especially rich.

Moreover, a ‘California Bungalow’ mode[419]—at worst but a parody at small scale of the Greenes’ expensive mansions, at best sharing many of their virtues of directness and simplicity if not of imaginative craftsmanship—became widely popular thanks to national magazines, pattern-books, and the activities of many builders. This was true not alone in the West but throughout the country in the very years after 1910 when ‘traditionalism’, usually in Neo-Colonial guise, closed in most completely on American domestic architecture.

The reputation of the Greenes today is less than that of the more articulate but less consistent Maybeck. But when modern architecture revived in California in the thirties the new men were fully aware of what the Greenes had accomplished. Thus their work provided, together with that of Maybeck and Howard, a background and a tradition for the local development of a largely autochthonous domestic architecture in the San Francisco Bay area. This was a truly living tradition[420] quite unlike the abortive revival of the architecture of the Spanish Missions, which it has now almost completely displaced. But the Mission influence was not altogether a negative one in early twentieth-century California, as the work of Irving Gill illustrates.

Gill was less prolific than the Greene brothers, and most of what he built is less striking. Like Voysey, he was in principle a reformer not a revolutionary, finding his inspiration consciously in the local structural tradition of the early Spanish Missions and _haciendas_. As a result some of his buildings, such as the First Church of Christ Scientist of 1904-7 in San Diego or in Los Angeles the Laughlan house of 1907 and the Banning house of 1911, at 666 West 28th Street and 503 South Commonwealth Avenue respectively, with their elliptically arched loggias and their grilles of ornamental ironwork, are almost as ‘Spanish Colonial’ as the work of the outright traditionalists around him.

Gill’s most interesting and mature houses, thanks to their smooth stucco walls, large window areas, and avoidance of stylistic detail, can also have a deceptive air of being European rather than American and of a period some years later than that in which they were actually built. In his best work, such as the Dodge house (Plate 147B) of 1915-16 at 950 North Kings Road in Los Angeles or the Scripps house at La Jolla of 1917, now the Art Centre, the asymmetrically organized blocks, crisply cut by large windows of various sizes carefully sashed and disposed, with roof terraces or flat roofs above, more than rival the contemporary houses of the Austrian architect Adolf Loos (Plate 155A) in the abstract distinction of the composition. They even approach rather closely the most advanced European houses of the next decade (see Chapters 21 and 22).

Gill’s interiors are especially fine and also quite like Loos’s. Very different from the rich orientalizing rooms designed by the Greenes, they are in fact more similar to real Japanese interiors in their severe elegance. The walls of fine smooth cabinet woods, with no mouldings at all, are warm in colour, and Voysey-like wooden grilles of plain square spindles give human scale. The whole effect, in its clarity of form and simplicity of means, is certainly more premonitory of the next stage of modern architecture than any other American work of its period.

Gill continued to practise intermittently down into the thirties, but his finest work was done in the second decade of the century. He had little influence locally and still less nationally, yet his best houses extend very notably the range of achievement of the first generation of modern architects in America, even though his later production declined sadly in quantity and even in quality. Wright alone was able to renew his career successfully after the reaction against modern architecture that dominated America from coast to coast during the twenty years from the First World War to the mid thirties finally came to an end.

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## CHAPTER 20

PETER BEHRENS AND OTHER GERMAN ARCHITECTS

THE pattern of architectural development in Germany in the early decades of this century was rather different from that in either France or the United States. No academy, native or foreign, no influences from the École des Beaux-Arts discouraged innovation; yet there was an early and general reaction against the whimsicality and the decorative excesses of the Art Nouveau at which most of the younger men had tried their hands before 1900. After the First World War, however, the example of Expressionism in painting and sculpture led many architects to excesses of another sort. Expressionism in architecture,[421] or something very close to it, is not restricted to Germany. The most extreme example of any consequence, and probably the earliest, is Dutch, the Scheepvaarthuis in Amsterdam of 1912-13 by van der Meij (see Chapter 21). In Germany around 1920 various architects who had earlier been predominantly ‘traditional’ in their approach were influenced by Expressionism, as well as others who were already programmatically modern; nor was that influence restricted to the modern architects of the first generation (see Chapter 22).

The boundary line between what, in retrospect, still seems definitely modern and what now seems very similar to the ‘traditional’ work of these decades in other countries is much less sharp than in America. And no German architect of their own generation had the continuously creative achievement of a Perret or a Wright to his credit. Nevertheless Peter Behrens stands out among his contemporaries because of the vigorous boldness of his industrial buildings. Moreover, the influence of his factories of around 1910 was crucial on the next generation, and several of the later leaders actually worked in his office at that relevant period. Yet all but Behrens’s finest work can be matched in the production of other German architects; while his own vitality as an innovator was rather strictly limited to a few years and to what he did for one corporate client. That client was the A.E.G. (German General Electric Company), which had already employed Messel down to his death in 1909.

Messel and Ludwig Hoffmann (1851-1932) dominated the architectural scene in Berlin, where the latter was appointed City Architect in 1896 on the strength of his vast academic Imperial Law Courts of 1886-95 in Leipzig. In the early years of the century they both developed a formal mode that was more ‘traditional’ than modern. Despite Messel’s and Hoffmann’s usual preference for conventional sixteenth- or eighteenth-century models, Behrens was certainly not uninfluenced by their mode of design, even though his more positive sources of inspiration were of a less conservative order. Yet, in so far as one can sort out the different architectural camps in Germany in these years, Behrens must be considered well to the artistic ‘left’ of Messel and Hoffmann.

Germany was certainly very receptive to new ideas in decoration when Behrens’s architectural career began at the turn of the century—receptive rather than creative. There were other Germans who handled the Art Nouveau with considerable originality besides August Endell, notably Bernard Pankok (b. 1872) and Richard Riemerschmid (1868-1957); but two foreigners, neither of them very prolific builders, seem to have been the most influential figures on the German architectural scene at the opening of the new century. The Belgian Van de Velde had moved from Paris to Berlin in 1899; the Austrian Olbrich was called to Darmstadt by the Grand Duke in the same year. Olbrich stayed at Darmstadt until his early death in 1908; Van de Velde, however, left Berlin in 1902 when he was invited to Weimar to head the School of Arts and Crafts there which later became the Bauhaus. Van de Velde’s finest Art Nouveau furniture dates from his Berlin years around 1900. As late as 1906,[422] the Central Hall which he designed in the Dresden Exhibition showed him still a competent if rather heavy-handed decorator in the Art Nouveau tradition.

Van de Velde’s remodelling of the Folkwang Museum at Hagen of 1900-2, quite Art Nouveau in its details, his Esche house at Chemnitz of 1903, and his Leuring house at Scheveningen in Holland of the next year, both very massive and heavily mansarded though unornamented externally like his own house of 1895-6 at Uccle, hardly require particular mention. However, for the school that he headed in Weimar he completed in 1906 a building even more devoid of Art Nouveau elements and notably straightforward in character. The plain white stucco walls below his usual heavy mansards were very frankly fenestrated with ranges of wide studio windows, perhaps in emulation of Mackintosh’s Glasgow Art School. Indeed, the general effect is even simpler and more rectilinear than that of its possible Scottish prototype. The problem of his responsibility or lack of responsibility for the design of the Théâtre des Champs Élysées in Paris of 1911-13 has already been discussed (see

## Chapter 17).

Van de Velde continued to build occasionally throughout all his long life—some portions of his Kröller-Müller Museum near Otterlo in Holland were only completed in 1953—but his last pre-war work was the theatre that he designed and executed in 1913-14 for the Werkbund Exhibition at Cologne. Some trace of the massively plastic quality of his Dresden hall of 1906—so different from the delicacy and grace of the Art Nouveau in its best period—remained in the curved walls and roof of this edifice, but the whole effect was lighter and plainer, more abstract one might almost say.

The resemblance of Olbrich’s Ernst Ludwig Haus of 1901 at the Darmstadt Artists’ Colony to Mackintosh’s Art School has already been noted (see

## Chapter 17). At Darmstadt he also continued to build houses for some

years, and his work there culminated in the Exhibition Gallery and the Wedding Tower on the Matildenhöhe, erected in 1907. The former was blocky and somewhat classicizing in character, at once very plain and very formal. The latter, of brick, had a more Hanseatic flavour because of its arched and panelled gable; but it also included a novel motif, bands of windows that seem to carry round a corner, that was destined to be very influential everywhere in the twenties.

In the next and last year of Olbrich’s life—he died, it will be recalled, at the early age of forty-one—two important commissions came to him away from Darmstadt. The Feinhals house at Marienburg near Cologne repeats the blocky symmetrical composition of the Exhibition Building, the walls being articulated only with flat oblong panels. The loggia between, however, has a range of Greek Doric columns, clear evidence of the influence of Romantic Classicism that was growing stronger in Germany all through this decade. But Olbrich had little real appreciation of the subtle elegance of the work of Schinkel and his contemporaries, or so it would appear from this house.

The buildings of the East Cemetery in Munich, designed by Hans Grässel (1860-?) in 1894 and completed in 1900, are perhaps the first examples of this sort of ‘Neo-Neo-Classicism’. Yet beside the contemporary Neo-Baroque of the Munich Palace of Justice built in 1897 by Grässel’s master, Friedrich von Thiersch (1852-1921), nearly as over-scaled and aggressive as Wallot’s Reichstag in Berlin, the rather Schinkelesque work at the cemetery appears, in its crispness and its relative simplicity, almost as ‘modern’ as anything by Olbrich. As has been noted earlier, Schinkel remained a major inspiration to such a leader of the second generation of modern architects as Mies van der Rohe, so this influence has a continuing significance.

A much larger building by Olbrich than the house at Marienburg, also completed in the year of his death, the Tietz (now Kaufhof) Department Store in Düsseldorf, repeats the reiterative verticalism of those portions of Messel’s Wertheim store in Berlin that were built in 1900-4, though Olbrich’s detailing is not medievalizing like Messel’s but rather semi-Classical. Neither of these later things maintains the promise of his Ernst Ludwig Haus; they rather illustrate that general recession from bold innovation which characterized the architecture of this decade in Germany, a recession corresponding more or less closely to the general resurgence of ‘traditionalism’ in England and America that came a few years later (see Chapter 24).

Peter Behrens (1868-1940), only a year younger than Olbrich, began his career as an architect at Darmstadt. From 1896 on, before being called there, he had only done decorative work of a markedly Art Nouveau sort. In his own house in the Artists’ Colony of 1900-1—the only one not built by Olbrich—the interiors are still quite Art Nouveau, but the clumsy exterior has little interest except as a document of revolt. Yet the plan is quite like that of Wright’s own house of 1889 in Oak Park, allowing a real flow of space through wide openings between entrance hall, living-room, and dining-room. By 1902 the ‘Hessian’ interior that he contributed to the Turin Exhibition was wholly rectilinear, presumably under the influence of Olbrich and Mackintosh. A similar severity characterized the work that he did, much of it merely open pergolas, for the Düsseldorf Garden and Art Exhibition of 1904.

By this time Behrens’s personal style was maturing, although his debt to Olbrich remained very evident. The Art Pavilion for the North-West German Art Exhibition held in Oldenburg in 1904 was a symmetrical composition of cubical masses, the flatness of their surfaces even more emphasized by linear panelling than in Olbrich’s work. The Obenauer house of 1905-6 at Sankt Johann near Saarbrücken is rather more loosely composed; indeed, its white stucco walls, slated roofs, and grouped windows distinctly recall Voysey’s houses, which were by this time very well known in Germany thanks to the _Studio_ and Muthesius’s book. The garden front, however, is symmetrical and the plan not as open as that of his own house of four years earlier.

In Behrens’s next two buildings, the small Concert Hall in the Flora Garden at Cologne of 1906 and the large Crematorium at Delstern near Hagen completed the following year, the geometrical panelling in black and white, used both inside and out, recalls a little San Miniato in Florence. But the blocky geometry of the Oldenburg pavilion and its smooth flat surfaces were also repeated, so that both these buildings have a curiously model-like look as if they were made of sheets of cardboard.

Behrens’s two finest works up to this time, the Schröder house of 1908-9—no longer extant—and the Cuno house of 1909-10 in the Hassleyerstrasse at Eppenhausen near Hagen, have a much more solid appearance, with quarry-faced masonry below and roughcast walls above (Plate 148B). The symmetrical façades, which correspond to completely symmetrical plans, are at once more tightly and more subtly composed. Here English influence seems to have been superseded by an attempt, rather more successful than Olbrich’s at Marienburg, to emulate Schinkel. A third early house by Behrens, the Goedecke house at Oppenhausen of 1911-12, is equally formal but not symmetrical, recalling thus a little Schinkel’s Schloss Glienecke near Potsdam.

Somewhat similar to Behrens’s work of this period in its evident derivation from German Romantic Classicism, but more delicate in scale, was the work of Heinrich Tessenow (1876-1950), notably his Festival Theatre of 1910-13 and the other buildings he designed and erected for the Art Colony at Hellerau near Dresden. But such German work, of which a great deal was produced in the decade before the First World War, corresponds rather closely, despite the frequent stylization of detail and the serious concern with geometrical clarity in composition, to the Neo-Georgian of England and America in the early twentieth century, and also to much parallel work in the Scandinavian countries that is usually of rather higher quality (see Chapter 24).

Moreover, those Frenchmen who castigated the Théâtre des Champs Élysées as ‘Boche’ during the First World War because of the presumption that it was designed by Van de Velde, born a Belgian but head of a German art school, were not altogether wrong. In its scraped Classicism and rigidly geometrical _ordonnance_ Perret’s façade was not at all remote from one of the most characteristic German modes of the years just before 1914. Perret’s industrial work was, of course, much more significant for the future.

So also with Behrens it was the challenge that his position as architect of the A.E.G. brought of working in the industrial field that made him briefly a rival of Wright, and even more particularly of Perret, as a major architectural innovator. Behrens’s first work for the A.E.G., the Turbine Factory at the corner of the Hussitenstrasse and the Berlichingenstrasse in Moabit, an industrial suburb of Berlin, was erected in 1909 immediately upon his appointment as successor to Messel. This broke new ground in several ways. It was built partly of poured concrete, partly of exposed steel, with both materials very directly expressed (Plate 149A). The side wall of glass and steel more than rivals in its openness those of the department stores designed by Art Nouveau architects (Plates 131B and 133). But Behrens’s façade, in contradistinction to theirs, has no applied ornament whatsoever. Moreover, he ordered the whole composition as carefully as Schinkel might have done if either large factories or metal-and-glass construction had come within his purview.

The end façade of the Turbine Factory is slightly less frank in design. The concrete corners on either side of the central window-wall of metal and glass are battered and striated horizontally as if to suggest rusticated masonry. The gable of the multi-faceted roof is brought forward to shelter the window-wall; this projects slightly in front of the concrete corners, almost like a Shavian bay-window raised to industrial scale. The treatment of the window-bands of the lower concrete block to the left resembles that of Schinkel’s articulated walls on the Berlin Schauspielhaus, but with all the Greek mouldings omitted. Thus the functional elements of a factory executed throughout in new materials were here for the first time in Germany architectonically ordered with no dependence on decoration of any sort. Wright had done much the same four years earlier in his little-known E.-Z. Polish Factory in Chicago, but the scale of that is modest and its walls are not extensively fenestrated. Perret had come closer to it in his Garage Ponthieu in Paris, also built in 1905. There can be little question, however, that Behrens’s is the finest building of the three.

In two more factories built in 1910 for the A.E.G., both much larger but neither of them quite so striking, Behrens broadened his range as an industrial architect. The High Tension Factory in the Humboldthain is of brick, not concrete or steel. Except for a few minor elements somewhat suggesting pedimented temple-fronts translated into an industrial vocabulary, he handled the vast façades here with the same directness as the side elevation of metal and glass at the Turbine Factory. The Small Motors Factory in the Voltastrasse is similar but much finer (Plate 148A). There the brick piers have rounded corners and rise unbroken almost the full height of the building. The effect is somewhat like that portion of Messel’s Wertheim Store which was built in the late nineties, but the scale is larger, and there is none of Messel’s rich, half-traditional, half-Art-Nouveau detailing. Instead, the careful proportioning and the suave but extremely straightforward treatment of the structural elements again suggests Schinkel’s sort of ‘rationalism’ yet succeeds in doing so, as at the earlier Turbine Factory, with almost no reminiscence of actual Romantic Classical forms.

Thanks to the widening range of responsibility that German industry was now ready to give architects, Behrens not only built these big factories for the A.E.G. and also redecorated their retail shops all over Berlin, but he was soon asked in addition to provide some blocks of flats for the company’s workmen at Hennigsdorf outside Berlin. This was a social challenge which neither Wright nor Perret had to meet. (In fact, however, Wright did in 1904 design terrace-houses that were never executed for Larkin Company workers in Buffalo; while in France low-cost housing had a very important place in Garnier’s projects for a ‘Cité Industrielle’.) Henceforth, such housing would be a major preoccupation of most modern architects. This is true not only in Germany but all over the western world, and especially in Holland and Scandinavia. The origins of low-cost housing go back to the 1840s in England when Henry Roberts, whose Fishmongers’ Hall in London has been mentioned, became the first architect to specialize in this field. But the early history of housing[423] is of more sociological than architectural interest. Moreover, what the nineteenth century esteemed to be ‘model’ low-cost dwellings have too often had to be demolished as ‘sub-standard’ in the twentieth. Even the interest and activities of present-day architects may not spare the twentieth century the shame of building again as a public service what posterity will consider slums.

Various small A.E.G. factories for making porcelain, lacquer, and other specialized products were also erected by Behrens in 1910 and 1911, none of particular interest. In 1911-12, however, there followed the Large Machine Assembly Hall at the corner of the Voltastrasse and the Hussitenstrasse near the Small Motors Factory. This rivals in quality the Turbine Factory of 1909. Once more a great rectangular volume is covered with a multi-faceted steel-framed roof, the structure below being in this instance also of steel with no use of concrete. The metal frame is largely filled with glass, but brick was introduced at the base and on the ends. The scale of this unit is less monumental than that of the Turbine Factory, though the size is much greater. The general effect, particularly that of the interior with its travelling cranes, is at once light and dramatic. A big A.E.G. plant was also built by Behrens at Riga in Russia in 1913.

Three large non-industrial commissions of 1911-12 show how this work for the A.E.G. affected Behrens’s approach to design. Although it is built of stone not brick, the German Embassy (Plate 27A) opposite Monferran’s St Isaac’s Cathedral in Petersburg is, at first sight, deceptively like the Small Motors Factory. Actually, the façade has a range of engaged Doric columns, but by their tall slim proportions and their lack of entasis these were, so to say, ‘industrially’ stylized. The great scale, the absolute regularity, and a certain coldness surely derived in part from the factories of the previous two years; but these also recall Romantic Classical monuments of Alexander I’s time in Petersburg.

Behrens’s enormous office building for the Mannesmann Steel Works on the Rhine at Düsseldorf was less successful, as was also that for the Continental Rubber Company in Hanover. The latter was designed in 1911 and begun in 1913, but not completed until after the First World War, in 1920; it was destroyed in the Second World War. The heavily reiterative sort of scraped Classicism Behrens used for these overpowering masonry blocks lacked the subtlety of composition of the Hagen houses yet retained something of the directness of expression of the A.E.G. factories. They were not untypical, however, of much large-scale German building of the second and third decades of the century. This mode developed fairly directly out of the Berlin work of Messel and Ludwig Hoffmann, although it was usually much less specifically ‘traditional’ in its detailing and even more aggressive in scale; a not dissimilar mode returned to official favour under Hitler in the mid thirties, usually with very coarse detailing.

With these big office buildings by Behrens and others one may compare the work of this period by various other German architects who preferred less classicizing modes. Early buildings by Fritz Schumacher (1869-1947), such as his crematorium in Dresden of 1908, also illustrate the megalomaniac tendencies of the period that seem so expressive of the expansive ambitions of William II’s Second Reich. The many schools that Schumacher built in Hamburg just before the First World War are simpler, although still rather heavily scaled, and more comparable in quality to Behrens’s work. One in particular, built in 1914 in the Ahrensburgerstrasse, almost echoes the elongated colonnade of Behrens’s Petersburg Embassy, but the ‘columns’ are plain piers executed in dark red brick[424] and strung along a front that is concave not flat. The bath-house at Eppenhausen, also of 1914, is very like the schools; while in the Kunstgewerbe Haus of the previous year on the Holstenwall in Hamburg a similar mode was employed for what is, in effect, a large office building. This seems to have initiated a local tradition of design for commercial buildings which was maintained in the twenties with little change, not only by Schumacher but by several other Hamburg architects. Schumacher’s cemetery chapel, built as late as 1923, follows much the same line.

In Stuttgart the railway station by Paul Bonatz (1877-1951) and F. E. Scholer (b. 1874) is the finest though not the largest of several built in Germany in these years. Designed in 1911, it was started only in 1914, just as the enormous and much less interesting one at Leipzig with its six parallel sheds, begun by Wilhelm Lossow (1852-1914) and M. H. Kühne in 1907, was reaching completion. That at Stuttgart was not finished until 1927 because of the interruption caused by the First World War. This structure has a rather Richardsonian flavour in its extensive unbroken wall surfaces of rock-faced ashlar and its plain round arches (Plate 152). But the influence here came rather from the Munich architect Theodor Fischer (1862-1938). Fischer’s Romanesquoid churches, such as that of the Redeemer in Munich of 1899-1901 and the Garrison Church of 1908-11 in Ulm, were among the largest and most strikingly novel built in the opening years of the century in Germany; in the latter he even used ferro-concrete principals to carry the roof of the nave. Fischer’s Art Gallery of 1911 in Stuttgart was both more delicate in scale and rather more archaeological in its detailing; Bonatz’s Stuttgart work is bolder, simpler, and quite as admirably expressive of the traditional materials used.

With the Stuttgart Station may be contrasted the rather earlier one at Hamburg that Heinrich Reinhardt (1868-?) and Georg Süssenguth (1862-?) built in 1903-6. There the major sections—shed, concourse, etc.—designed by the engineer Medling resemble rather closely Contamin and Dutert’s Galerie des Machines at the Paris Exhibition of 1889. These great constructions of iron and glass fortunately quite overshadow the low ranges of accessory elements in masonry, with ornament still in the Meistersinger mode of the eighties, contributed by the architects. The differences between these two notable stations well illustrate that reaction towards masonry construction and a more or less traditional approach to design that was developing strength in the decade preceding the First World War. In the history of the railroad station as a type the Hamburg Hauptbahnhof represents, not a new beginning, but the end of a line descending from the great shed-dominated stations of the mid nineteenth century.

Intermediate in date between the Hamburg and Stuttgart stations was that at Karlsruhe built by August Stürzenacker in 1908-13. Although masonry construction and masonry forms dominate here as at Stuttgart, the simplification of mass and space composition throughout, and above all the elegant detailing, give evidence of the continuing leadership of Olbrich at the time of his death. Olbrich never built a station himself, but he won third place in the 1903 competition for that at Basel and second place in the 1907 competition for Darmstadt.

In other specialized fields of building a forward line of development is more evident. Two big circular halls, one in Frankfort built by Thiersch in 1907-8, the other in Breslau built by Max Berg (b. 1870) in 1910-12 (Plate 149B), are more notable than the contemporary railway stations at Stuttgart and Karlsruhe. Like Behrens’s industrial work for the A.E.G., these structures illustrate the vital stimulus that German architects were obtaining in these generally somewhat reactionary years from the use of engineering solutions and materials other than masonry—steel at Frankfort, ferro-concrete at Breslau—to cover and enclose space. In the case of Thiersch this is the more remarkable when one remembers the ponderous traditionalism of his Neo-Baroque Palace of Justice in Munich built ten years before. While Berg on the exterior of his vast hall approaches the attenuated Classicism of Perret’s work of the next decade, the superb interior reminds one at once of Piranesi and of the much later structures of Nervi.

German architects of this generation were rarely able to carry over into the designing of more conventional structures the boldness and freshness of approach of their large-scale work. They seem to have felt no such call to regenerate architecture as Wright had imbibed from Sullivan; nor did they, like Perret, attempt to use the new materials and the new structural methods consistently for all sorts of buildings whatever their particular purpose. German production before and after the First World War, as represented in the _œuvre_ of such then highly esteemed figures[425] as Oskar Kaufmann (b. 1873), German Bestelmeyer (1874-1942), and Wilhelm Kreis (b. 1873), to mention but three of the best known, shades over almost imperceptibly from industrial and semi-industrial buildings of bold and original character to a range of structures in various tasteful modes that are, in retrospect, hardly distinguishable from the traditional work of this period in other countries. This has already been noted as regards Tessenow. Characteristic examples of these men’s work were Bestelmeyer’s extensions of the University and the Technical High School in Munich, of 1906-10 and 1922 respectively, both in the local tradition of Theodor Fischer’s work. The Museum of Prehistory in Halle that Kreis built in 1916 with K. A. Jüngst was more traditional even than Bestelmeyer’s work, although Provincial-Roman rather than Romanesque in inspiration.

As in England in the late nineteenth century, individual idiosyncrasies were much cultivated, and architects tended to specialize in particular types of buildings. Kaufmann, for example, had a very personal Neo-Rococo manner, delicate and frivolous, that he employed with real appropriateness in various Berlin theatres, notably the remodelling of the Kroll Oper and the Komödie, both carried out in 1924. But Behrens remains on the whole the most interesting and accomplished architect of this generation, whose opportunities for building were often to be even greater under the Weimar Republic in the early twenties than they had been under the Kaiser.

No very great change is observable in Behrens’s work after the First World War. The terrace-houses that he built in 1918 for A.E.G. workers at Hennigsdorf, and the semi-detached dwellings of a low-cost housing estate for which he was responsible at Othmarschen near Altona in 1920 are simple and solid in construction, quite like those of before the war but more conservative in design. However, at this point comes a characteristic, though brief, change of phase that illustrates his ready response to influences from the new painting and sculpture of the day. In the big complex erected for the I. G. Farben Company in 1920-4 at Höchst Behrens gave up the direct expression of new industrial building methods characteristic of his A.E.G. factories of 1909-11. The exterior was massive and almost medievalizing, even though the ranges of arches were of the unconventional parabolic form that seems to have appealed especially to Expressionist taste. In the tall glass-roofed court inside the angular forms of Expressionism were most strikingly evident; but he also introduced wholly abstract wall paintings and a few rather Constructivist lighting fixtures elsewhere in the reception rooms and offices. The result was, to say the least, ambiguous and incoherent, although the exterior was not unimpressive in its general effect.

Expressionist influence had first appeared a little earlier than this in the work of other German architects, but it reached a peak in these years of the early twenties. In his pre-war industrial work Hans Poelzig (1869-1936) was not yet Expressionist. The chemical works that he built at Luban near Posen in 1911-12 rivalled in size and even in directness of expression—though not in distinction—Behrens’s factories for the A.E.G. After the war, however, Poelzig became a principal exponent of Expressionism in architecture. One of the earliest and most striking examples of Expressionist design on a large scale was his remodelling of the Grosses Schauspielhaus in Berlin in 1919. Here the cavernous, stalactite-ceilinged interior round the central circular stage was itself like an Expressionist stage-set and the planning implied a major revolution in dramatic presentation that never, in fact, quite came off. Yet his industrial work of the early twenties soon became much more straightforward again, and he later reverted to something very comparable to the stripped monumentality of Behrens’s Düsseldorf and Hanover office buildings. The most prominent extant example of this is the enormous I.G. Farben Company headquarters that he built in 1930 in Frankfort.

One can hardly leave the subject of Expressionism in German architecture, largely confined though its more extreme manifestations were to a very short post-war period of three or four years, without mentioning two more names, those of Fritz Höger (1877-1949) and Dominikus Böhm (1880-1955).

The twenties saw a few skyscrapers erected in Germany, none of them of the great height then current in America, but sometimes as conspicuous above the existing skyline as the first skyscrapers in New York had been in the seventies. The largest, though not the tallest, and certainly the most impressive was the Chilehaus, built by Höger in Hamburg in 1923, with its Schumacher-like piers of patterned brickwork and its upper three storeys receding behind narrow terraces (Plate 153A). A large and irregular site encouraged the employment of a long double curve on the right-hand side of the hollow block, and the sharp angle at that end produced automatically a silhouette of the shrillest Expressionist order. Actually, however, Höger like other German architects was already returning by this time from earlier and wilder Expressionist adventures. To what extent he was aware of the skyscrapers of Sullivan is uncertain. The emphatically vertical scheme of design he used here, with arches linking the brick piers together below slab cornices, certainly suggests some knowledge of them, even though they were by this time all but forgotten in America.

Considerably taller than the Chilehaus, but not otherwise very distinguished, were two other German skyscrapers of the twenties. Kreis’s Wilhelm Marx Haus of 1924 in Düsseldorf, a thirteen-storey tower crowned with curious openwork tracery of inter-laced brick, is still a conspicuous feature of the local skyline; but the Planetarium and associated buildings that he erected at the Gesolei there two years later are better examples of the fairly restrained mode that he and others usually employed in these years. The plainer and better proportioned seventeen-storey Hochhaus am Hansaring in Cologne was built in 1925 by Jacob Koerfer (b. 1875).

Although only a few skyscrapers actually rose in European cities in the twenties, the theme nevertheless fascinated the younger architects. Many bold designs for them were projected, some of them of real significance for later developments in both the Old World and the New (see Chapter 22). The international competition for the Chicago Tribune Tower held in 1922, which many Europeans entered and the Finn Eliel Saarinen all but won, signally focused attention on a type of building hitherto considered unsuitable for the Old World, and generally accepted in Europe only in the 1950s (see Chapters 21 and 25).

The churches of Böhm, all of them Catholic, have a suavity that Höger’s work lacks, but at least equal forcefulness. The Suabian War Memorial Church of 1923 at Neu-Ulm is like an imaginative film-set of the period, being a sort of free fantasia on Gothic themes with little feeling of structural reality. But the boldest of Böhm’s churches, that he built at Bischofsheim in 1926, seems almost to take off from the engineer Freyssinet’s hangars at Orly. The paraboloid forms are here very frankly used; yet the concrete ‘barrel’ vault of the nave, intersected by lower cross-vaults over the bays of the aisles, creates a strong emotional effect that is both Gothic and Expressionist in tone. The finest of his churches, however, may be Sankt Engelbert at Cologne-Riehl of 1931-3. This is circular in plan and very ingeniously roofed, not with a dome,[426] but with lobes of paraboloid barrel-vaulting.

However, in a church built in 1929, Sankt Josef at Hindenburg in Upper Silesia, Böhm had already turned away from the emotionalism of his earlier work towards simple rectangular forms.[427] This simplicity he has maintained in his post-war churches, with the result that his last work, Maria Königin,[428] built at Marienburg outside Cologne in 1954, with its squarish plan, very slender metal supports, and side wall of glass, has very little churchly flavour left. Yet some of Böhm’s very late projects indicated that many of his ambitions of thirty years ago still remained with him to the end; they may well some day find effective expression at the hands of his son or of Rudolf Schwarz now that a more emotional approach to church-design has been revived internationally.

Compared to such a French church of the twenties as Perret’s Notre-Dame at Le Raincy or such a Swiss church as Moser’s Sankt Antonius in Basel, both using concrete in the rectangular and skeletal mode usually preferred at that time, Böhm’s churches of the twenties once seemed semi-traditional rather than modern. One can now see, however, that there is a different and more emotive line of development in modern church architecture to which, for example, Gaudí’s unfinished churches at San Coloma and Barcelona belong, as do also such later Latin American examples in ferro-concrete as the Purísima at Monterrey in Mexico by Enrique de la Mora (b. 1907) of 1939-47, São Francisco at Pampulha in Brazil, built by Oscar Niemeyer (b. 1901) in 1943, Nuestra Señora de los Milagros in Mexico City by Felix Candela (b. 1910), completed in 1955, and several completed in the mid fifties by Juvenal Moya at Bogotá in Colombia[429] (see Chapters 23 and 25). Expressionism may have been less of a cul de sac than its brief impingement on Behrens might lead one to suppose. Certainly it was a potent force for a few years after the First World War, and played then a significant role in breaking down the rule of ‘tasteful’ traditionalism inherited from the preceding decade.[430]

As the twenties progressed, however, and extreme Expressionist influence generally receded, Behrens gave evidence of his awareness of the quite different direction that modern architecture had just taken in the hands of certain younger men, several of whom had actually been his own pupils or at least his employees. In 1925-6 he built New Ways, a house in Northampton, England, for S. J. Bassett-Lowke, earlier a client of Mackintosh’s. With its smooth white stucco walls, horizontally grouped windows, and flat roof, this is of considerable historical interest, although of very little intrinsic merit.[431] No such advanced work had yet been done in England by local architects, and at this time only a very few houses of a comparably advanced character had been executed anywhere (see Chapter 22).

Despite his unusual openness of mind, which led Behrens in his fifties to attempt to rival juniors barely started on their careers—or, quite as probably, because of the lack of strong personal conviction of which this gives evidence—Behrens did not, like Perret and Wright in later life, continue to be very creative beyond this date. In Vienna, where he was called in the mid twenties to be professor of architecture at the Akademie, he settled into a sort of compromise mode. The low-cost housing blocks that he built in Vienna in 1924-5 on the Margaretengürtel, in the Stromstrasse, and in the Konstanziastrasse illustrate his characteristic uncertainty of direction in these years. If considerably sounder, they are also much less adventurous than the Bassett-Lowke house designed at almost the same time. This can be seen still more clearly at the Weissenhof in Stuttgart where many of the buildings of the German Werkbund’s housing exhibition held in 1927 remain in use today. There Behrens’s block of flats stands very near one designed by the director of this exhibition, his former assistant Mies van der Rohe (Plate 162B), and not far from houses by such other leaders of the new generation as Gropius, Le Corbusier—who had both worked in his office also—and Oud (see Chapter 22). The contrast between his massive block and their light and open structures is the more striking because Behrens here so evidently set out to meet his juniors more than half-way.

Behrens’s very latest work, the factory for the Austrian Tobacco Administration at Linz built in 1930 in association with Alexander Popp (b. 1891), was rather less conservative because of the nature of the commission. It is less mechanistic than the industrial work done so much earlier for the A.E.G., yet nonetheless impressive for its consistency of treatment and also for its human scale. The Linz factory provides a not unworthy concluding note to Behrens’s ambiguous career.

The vast productivity of the German architects of Behrens’s generation, both before and after the First World War, building in a boom which only came to a close around 1930 with the world-wide depression, makes it difficult to choose specific examples worth the emphasis of even brief mention. The situation is made no easier by the considerable versatility of most of the leading figures. Those few buildings that have been specifically mentioned—even most of Behrens’s own work except for his A.E.G. factories—should be considered typical of the upper level of German achievement in these decades rather than monuments of unique distinction like the best things done by Perret and by Wright in the same decades. Yet, it is worth noting, for a long time neither Wright nor Perret had much effect on the general scene in their own countries, for all the seminal effect of their influence on younger architects everywhere; while the Germans achieved a tremendous volume of what can be called ‘half-modern’ work that notably changed the whole character of several large cities. Thus the way was prepared for a very early and widespread acceptance of the next stage of modern architecture, an acceptance so premature that it induced in the thirties a sharp reaction.

In 1933 a regime rose to power in Germany with doctrinaire objections to the latest phase of modern architecture, ironically castigated as _Kultur-Bolschevismus_ immediately after the Bolsheviks had rejected it as unacceptably bourgeois! As a result, the leaders of the younger generation almost all emigrated (see Chapter 23); while with few exceptions those German architects who remained at home turned backwards in their tracks, though not very far backwards. Most German production in the Nazi period is all but indistinguishable, indeed, from what was considered most advanced before the First World War and even for some years thereafter. Very little of it deserves specific mention. As was the case around 1910, the more nearly the structures were of an engineering order—as for instance Bonatz’s bridges for the Autobahn built over the years 1935-41—the less they were likely to be stylized along the heavy near-Classical or semi-medieval lines the later Imperial period had established as conventional a generation before. Even the housing that Bonatz built after the War in 1945-6 at Ankara in Turkey and his Opera House there of 1947-8 are hardly as advanced as his Zeppelinbau office building of 1929-31 opposite the station in Stuttgart. Like Behrens at the same time, he had attempted there—with a certain amount of real success—to follow the ascetic principles of the younger generation that had just been so well illustrated at Stuttgart in the Werkbund Exhibition of 1927 on the Weissenhof (see Chapter 22).

Immediately after the Second World War there was for several years some continuing use of the modes of 1910, so to call them. This was natural because of the prolonged absence of most of the leaders of the intervening generation from the country—Gropius, Mies, and Mendelsohn never returned—and the renewed activity of so many of the older generation who had made their reputation in the period 1905-25 with which this chapter has chiefly dealt. Today it is as if Germany had lived through the stylistic developments of the twenties a second time, and now the newer sort of architecture is once again as ubiquitous there as it was in 1930.

These tidal waves of changing taste in Germany, each representing a sharp reaction against its predecessor, make difficult such a focusing of attention on a few creative and insurgent figures as gives dramatic pungency to the history of these decades in America and France. _Jugendstil_, _Expressionismus_, _Neue Sachlichkeit_,[432] these general movements, more than even so distinguished an individual as Behrens, are the real protagonists of the German story from 1900 to 1933; but in the international frame of reference they must be subordinated to the broader currents that dominated the architecture of the western world in the period. In that frame of reference the contribution of a few Austrians more than equalled that of the more prolific Germans, down at least to the First World War.

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## CHAPTER 21

THE FIRST GENERATION IN AUSTRIA, HOLLAND, AND SCANDINAVIA

THE development of modern architecture in Austria between 1900 and the Nazi conquest has many connexions with that of Germany. The Austrian Olbrich had as much as anyone to do with setting off the reaction against the Art Nouveau in Germany after 1900. From the mid twenties, Behrens was living in Austria, not in Germany. Even so, and particularly for the years before the First World War, there is a separate and purely Austrian story, more limited than the German story yet at least equally notable for highly distinguished achievement. Two Austrian architects at least, Otto Wagner and Adolf Loos (1870-1933), if not Wagner’s pupil Josef Hoffmann (1870-1956), were the equals of any of the leading German architects of their day, except perhaps Behrens. Wagner, already sixty in 1901, produced his finest work after that date. The Wiener Werkstätte, founded by Hoffmann in 1903, provided a centre of activity in the field of decoration comparable to what the Century Guild and the Arts and Crafts Exhibition Society had offered earlier in England. Above all, Loos—in part possibly because he, of all Europeans of his generation, knew American architecture best—demonstrated, from his earliest executed work of 1898, a determination to renew the art of building that was as revolutionary as Wright’s.

Soon after 1900 Wagner threw off all Art Nouveau influence. Yet the finest element in his masterpiece, the central hall of the Postal Savings Bank in the Georg Coch Platz in Vienna of 1904-6, still retains in the curvature of its glass roof and the tapering of its metal supports something of Art Nouveau grace (Plate 154B). The exteriors of this massive edifice are lightened by the very original treatment of the geometrically organized wall-planes; the thin plaques of marble which provide the sheathing suggest volume, not mass, and the delicate relief of the few and simple projections quite avoids the ponderousness of most contemporary German work. As in so much of the best German work, however, the severity of form and even the specific character of certain ornamental features reflect in a stylized way the Grecian mode of a hundred years earlier. This is somewhat surprising in Vienna, where Romantic Classicism had been on the whole both unproductive and uncreative, but doubtless Wagner knew Schinkel’s work as well as did Behrens—certainly his lightness of hand is more comparable to Schinkel’s.

Not least interesting technically is the consistent employment of aluminium[433] in this building. The sculptured figures by Othmar Schimkowitz which crown the façade and the visible bolts that retain the granite and marble plaques are of this new metal; so also, apparently, are the structural members that support the glazed roof of the hall; at least they are completely sheathed with it. The large rear block of the bank dates from 1912, but the original vocabulary was retained by Wagner with only some slight simplification of the detailing of the plaquage.

Sankt Leopold, the cruciform church that serves as the chapel of the Steinhof Asylum on the Gallitzinberg at Penzing outside Vienna, was built by Wagner in 1904-7 at the same time as the Postal Savings Bank. This crowns his extensive hillside layout of the whole establishment, comparable in scale to the French asylums of the mid nineteenth century, but for the other buildings he was not directly responsible. Sankt Leopold is a large domed monument inviting comparison with Schinkel’s Nikolaikirche at Potsdam. However, the linear stylization of the detailing inside and out brings to mind Olbrich’s and Behrens’s buildings of its own day. There is no paraphernalia of Greek orders, yet the conceptual organization of the elements is certainly in the Romantic Classical tradition, with the four arms each quite cubic and the hemispherical dome raised on a cylindrical drum. As at Schmidt’s Neo-Gothic Fünfhaus church of the 1870s in Vienna, there are echoes of Fischer von Erlach’s Baroque Karlskirche here also, but the spirit is not at all Baroque. All the visible metalwork here, the sheathing of the dome, the statues of angels by Schimkowitz and of saints by Richard Luksch, and even the heads of the bolts that retain the marble plaques on the exterior walls, is of gilded bronze, not aluminium. This has not worn as well, for it has lost its gilt coating, peeled off many of the bolts, and streaked the walls with verdigris. Inside the church the mosaics by Rudolf Jettmar and the stained glass by Kolo Moser combine to rival the most sumptuous domestic ensembles produced by the Wiener Werkstätte, but the general effect, while light and even gay, still has a monumental dignity appropriate to a church. The walls are of plain white plaster, and narrow bands of geometrical ornament in gold and blue panel the cross vault—for, curiously enough, the central dome is not exploited internally.

Crisper in design and much simpler altogether than the Steinhof church are the blocks of low-cost flats that Wagner built in 1910-11 at 40 Neustiftsgasse and next door at 4 Döblergasse. Their walls are covered with stucco lined off to suggest plaquage, and the decoration is reduced to thin bands of dark blue tiles that merely outline the surface planes. Needless to say, these blocks have not survived as well as the expensively built bank and church. Wagner’s last works, a hospital not far from the Steinhof Asylum and his own house at 28 Hüttelbergstrasse, both in Penzing and of 1913, are typical but rather less interesting.

Hoffmann’s first architectural work of any consequence, a Convalescent Home at Purkersdorf built in 1903-4, was already simpler than Wagner’s hospital of a decade later, if considerably less architectonic in effect. The plain white stucco walls are full of ample windows almost devoid of surrounding frames and very regularly disposed; cornices and other conventional elements of detail are either omitted or reduced to an absolute minimum. The result is a structure that would still look very fresh and crisp half a century later were it not, like Wagner’s flats, in shabby physical condition.

As Hoffmann’s founding of the Wiener Werkstätte indicates, he was at heart less an architect than a decorator, like so many of the leading English and Scottish designers of this period and the immediately preceding one. The important commission to build a large and extremely luxurious mansion on the edge of Brussels in 1905, the Palais Stoclet at 373 Avenue de Tervueren, gave his decorative ambitions a free rein (Plate 154A). Yet the exterior of this has a good deal of the geometrical clarity of the Convalescent Home and rather more of Wagner’s architectonic values. The carefully ordered asymmetrical composition is dominated by the stair-tower, somewhat as the best Italian Villas of the previous century were dominated by their off-centre belvederes. The walls appear to be no more than thin skins of marble plaques, like Wagner’s, with the frequent and regularly spaced windows brought forward into the same surface plane. A decorative edging of gilded metal defines these smooth wall planes, giving the whole something of the fragile look of D’Aronco’s exhibition buildings. This is especially true of such a complex accent as the tower, with its tall stair-window.

The Stoclet house, as finished after six years in 1911, has some very fine interiors, cold and formal but sumptuously simple in their use of various marbles. The marble is quite undecorated on the delicate rectangular piers in the two-storey stair-hall; but in the dining-room it carries inlaid patterns by Gustav Klimt of almost Art Nouveau elaboration. The effect is rather curious, somewhat resembling characteristic English interiors by Voysey and his contemporaries carried out, not in stained or painted wood, but in figured and polished marbles; yet undoubtedly this is one of the most consistent and notable great houses of the twentieth century in Europe. Seeking to provide a new sort of elegance that even the best English domestic work lacked, Hoffmann achieved here an urbane distinction only approached by Gill and the Greenes at this time in America. His houses in Vienna, such as that at 5-7 Invalidenstrasse of 1911 and the suburban one at 14-16 Gloriettegasse in Hietzing, are not in a class with the Palais Stoclet but more comparable to Olbrich’s or Behrens’s houses of this period in Germany. Work of similar character and equal distinction was done by Fabiani in Vienna before he settled in Gorizia in 1920. Very Hoffmann-like indeed is his building for the publisher Artaria at 9 Kohlmarkt of 1901. His Urania in the Uraniagasse of 1910 also rivals Hoffmann’s best.

Successor to Wagner in general esteem, and himself a professor at the Kunstgewerbeschule, Hoffman developed his personal style no further in the work he did after the First World War. At the Austrian Pavilion in the Exhibition of Decorative Arts of 1925 in Paris—an exhibition organized in part to reclaim for France the primacy in the arts and crafts of decoration that had by this time passed to Vienna, largely because of Hoffmann’s leadership—the rather Neo-Rococo stuccoed block that he provided was much less advanced in character than the greenhouse-like portion designed by Behrens. However, his low-cost flats in the Felix-Mottlstrasse in Vienna, built like those of Behrens in the mid twenties, retain a good deal of the quality of his early sanatorium at Purkersdorf. Crisp and clean, they are distinctly less blank and ponderous than Behrens’s, if also less advanced in design that those by Josef Frank (b. 1885). Frank, a somewhat younger Viennese architect of considerable ability but lesser reputation than Hoffmann, left Vienna to settle in Sweden when the Nazis took over Austria.

The international acclaim that Viennese low-cost housing of this period received when new seems rather exaggerated now. From the first its significance was more political and sociological than architectural. It happened to be built, moreover, mostly by men not of the newest generation of architects at just the time when an architectural revolution was taking place in France and Holland and Germany (see Chapters 22 and 23). Henceforth that revolution, brilliantly illustrated as regards low-cost housing in the German Werkbund’s international exhibition of 1927 at Stuttgart, would affect most notably the design of such projects throughout the western world. The Viennese housing exhibition of 1930, a modest counterpart to that in Stuttgart, came too late to reform the local tradition, which largely survived even after the Second World War.

The work of Hoffmann’s exact contemporary Loos dates less than his and was of the greatest importance in providing inspiration to the modern architects of the second generation who brought about the revolution of the twenties. This inspiration from Loos is comparable in significance to that which the younger architects found in the work of Wright and of Perret. Loos, unlike other Austrians of his period, was primarily interested in architecture, not in decoration—indeed, he wrote in 1908 an article[434] claiming that ‘ornament is crime’, an attitude shared by no other architect of his generation, and least of all by his fellow Viennese. It was Loos’s tragedy that a very large part of his employment before the First World War was in remodelling and redecorating flats; this constrained him so little, however, that many of these may easily be taken in photographs for completely original house interiors (Plate 155B).

Although Loos began his career in the late nineties when the Art Nouveau tide ran highest, he was never at all affected by it, in part doubtless because he had spent the years 1893-6 in America beyond the range of Art Nouveau influence. The interior of the Goldman haberdashery shop in Vienna, which he designed in 1898, was entirely straight-lined and quite without any ornament; in the Café Museum of the next year the segmental ceiling and the bentwood chairs were curved, but only for structural reasons. Both are now gone, although the extant Knizé men’s shop in the Graben in Vienna of 1913 gives some idea of what the former was like.

It is Loos’s houses around Vienna, in Plzen, in Brno, in Montreux, and in Paris that place him as one of the four or five most important architects of his generation. His finest single extant work, however, is a small bar in Vienna. From the first he designed from the inside out, reducing his exteriors to square stucco boxes cut by many windows of different sizes and shapes. The results are very like Gill’s houses in California, as has been noted already, but with no such traditional elements as Gill’s arched porches. This is especially true of the Gustav Scheu house in the Larochegasse in the Vienna suburb of Hietzing, almost the only one left in Austria in something closely approaching its original condition (Plate 155A; Figure 43). Loos was an enthusiastic admirer of English domestic architecture; this bent of his taste is curiously illustrated by his liking for English eighteenth-century furniture of the Queen Anne and Chippendale periods, which looks today so out of place in his severely rectangular rooms. But the architectural character of his interiors is never influenced by eighteenth-century modes, but only by the most advanced English work of the opening of the century which he knew well through the _Studio_. Articulated by plain wooden structural members like Voysey’s interiors or, on occasion, by similar piers clad with marble like Hoffmann’s in the Stoclet house, Loos’s suites of living areas are as flowing as Wright’s[435] but he never provided as much interconnexion between indoors and out.

Of a succession of houses built before the First World War the much mishandled Steiner house of 1910 and the above-mentioned Scheu house of 1912, both in suburbs of Vienna, are perhaps the finest. The Villa Karma, built much earlier at Montreux in Switzerland in 1904-6, had an almost Hoffmann-like sumptuousness of materials and finish within; but in the main Loos kept, like Voysey and Wright, to plainer effects and simple dark wooden trim.

[Illustration:

Figure 43. Adolf Loos: Vienna, Gustav Scheu house, 1912, plan ]

At first his houses looked, externally, rather like quite conventional ones from which all elements of traditional detail had been scraped, as do many of the contemporary projects included in Garnier’s ‘Cité Industrielle’. Gradually, however, Loos came to handle his simple elements of external design with more of that assurance which his domestic interiors had displayed from as early as the flat in Vienna remodelled for Leopold Langer in 1901 (Plate 155B). Both the placing and the sashing of his windows were more carefully studied; and the proportions and the juxtapositions of his rather boxy masses were abstractly ordered well before a Neoplasticist like Georges Vantongerloo in Holland arrived at somewhat similar effects in sculpture (see Chapter 22). Compared to Wright’s more complex and articulated experimentation with abstract composition in the house of 1909 for Mrs Thomas Gale or the Coonley Playhouse of 1912, there remains, nevertheless, a distinctly negative quality about all Loos’s work. He seems to have been principally concerned to clear away inherited tradition in order to lay the foundations of an immanent new architecture. That new architecture, however, he himself was never able to bring fully into being, although others did so under his influence by the time he was in his early fifties (see Chapter 22).

In Loos’s larger urban work, such as the prominent Goldman & Salatsch Building of 1910 in the Michaelerplatz in Vienna, he was ready to use marble externally and even to include classically detailed columns. But in the ground storey of this store he increased the articulated space effects characteristic of the interiors of his flats and houses to almost monumental scale. Here, in the small Kärntner Bar of 1907, and in the Café Capua of 1913, both also in Vienna, his use of fine materials with their polished surfaces uninterrupted by mouldings would eventually prove as potent an inspiration to architects of the next generation as did his more ascetic written doctrine.

The Café Capua is gone; the Goldman & Salatsch interior drastically remodelled; but the Kärntner Bar, in the Kärntner Durchgang behind 10 Kärntnerstrasse, remains a small masterpiece of modern design. During the Nazi occupation the façade lost the American flag in stained glass which ran across the top, but the exterior was never of much interest in any case. The interior is fortunately completely intact (Plate 151). Skilful use of mirrors quite disguises its very small dimensions. Above smooth dark mahogany walls, set like screens between plain green marble piers, unframed panels of mirror that reach to the ceiling allow one to see the strong reticulated pattern of the yellow marble ceiling extending left and right and to the rear just as if the actual area of the bar were merely an enclave in a much larger space. Because of the

## particular height of the mahogany wainscoting this illusion is quite

perfect, for one sees only about as great a space reflected on either side as that one is actually in; if the mirrors came lower, a greater extension on either side and at the rear would be suggested than could possibly be plausible as a reflection. A continuous grille of square panels filled with translucent yellow onyx takes the place of the mirror panel across the top of the front wall. Not until Mies van der Rohe’s Barcelona Pavilion of 1929 was marble used again by a modern architect with such assurance (Plate 165A).

It was not these urban commissions, however, but Loos’s free-standing houses that the next generation of architects studied most closely. For example, Loos’s sort of domestic open planning, not Wright’s, was probably the major influence on the Continent after the First World War. Moreover, the neutrality, not to say the negativity, of the exteriors of his houses provided better even than Garnier’s projects the raw material with which a positive sort of architectural design could be created by younger men in the early twenties. Loos’s achievement before the First World War was largely in the domestic field; after the war most of his executed work still consisted of houses and shop interiors, although he made several extremely interesting projects for larger edifices and erected a large sugar refinery for the Rohrbacher Company in Czechoslovakia in 1919.

The Rufer house in Vienna of 1922 is a narrow three-storey block rather similar to Voysey’s Forster house of 1891 at Bedford Park. This has a most interesting sort of open plan, with the dining-room on a higher level than the living room. Loos was also working in other countries now; for his reputation, though limited to the most advanced circles, was increasingly international. His most considerable production of this decade was the house he built in 1926 for the writer Tristan Tzara at 14 Avenue Junod in Paris, where Loos had settled four years earlier. In the Tzara house the interior is arranged somewhat like that of the Rufer house: the dining room opens into the living room but on a higher level. The tall, rather blank front, slightly concave in plan, has a more positive character than those of most of his houses, because the two-storey void sunk into its centre provides a dominating plastic feature above the solid rubble of the ground storey.

Of still later work the Kuhner house of 1930 at Payerbach in the wooded hills near Vienna is the most original example. A two-storey hall, opening towards the view through a window-wall, occupies most of the interior, with the various other living spaces opening into it on the main floor and the bedrooms reached from a gallery above. Above the masonry base the house is externally of log-construction, chalet-like, with Tyrolean roofs of low pitch and wide-spreading eaves. This reversion to peasant materials, and even to peasant forms, was curiously premonitory of a direction modern architecture took in several countries in the thirties (see Chapter 23). Had Loos lived longer he might, like Wright in that decade, have returned to the centre of the stage. As it was, his major contribution antedated the First World War.

Perret, Wright, Behrens, and Loos: on the whole these are the four most important architects of the first modern generation, important both for their personal contribution and also for their decisive influence on later architecture. Outside the countries in which these men worked, notably in Holland and in Scandinavia, there were also architects of distinction belonging to this generation but their achievement was more limited and their influence more local, at least before the First World War. Yet Holland, between 1910 and 1925, came closer than any other country to creating a modern style, or phase of style, that was universally accepted at home; the origins, moreover, go back to the nineties. There was, properly speaking, no prefatory Art Nouveau episode in Holland of any consequence in spite of a considerable activity in the decorative arts inspired, in part at least, by serious study of the crafts of Indonesia.

Hendrik Petrus Berlage (1856-1934), the leader of the national school, was considerably older than Perret, Wright, Behrens, or Loos, although much younger than Wagner. As in Wagner’s case, his earliest work, dating from the eighties, is of a generically Renaissance character, though much less suave and academic. The influence of Cuijpers soon led him towards a medieval mode—not Gothic, however, but round-arched. Compared to _Rundbogenstil_ work of the best period fifty years earlier, his round-arched buildings of the nineties are rather gawky, but not without originality in their ornamentation; above all, they are vigorously structural in their expression in a ‘realistic’ and, indeed, almost High Victorian way. However, the insurance company buildings in Amsterdam and The Hague that best illustrate this phase were later enlarged by him in a chaster mode, thereby losing much of their anachronistic flavour.

Berlage’s major opportunity came with the competition for the design of the Amsterdam Exchange held in 1897. This competition he won with a project which seems rather Richardsonian[436] to American eyes, though he did not—apparently—know much about American work at that time. For this very extensive public edifice, built over the years 1898-1903, he used, not the stone of his insurance office across the Damrak of 1893, but the red brick of his Hague insurance office, also of 1893, varied with a modicum of stone trim still quite crudely notched and chamfered. Inside, the principal interior has exposed metal principals above galleried walls of brick and stone. In Berlage’s masculine vigour and defiant gracelessness of detailing one could hardly have a greater contrast to such another major public building, designed and built at almost precisely the same time, as Horta’s Maison du Peuple in Brussels. But Horta’s masterpiece climaxed rather than opened his career as an architect of international importance; certainly it did not lead to the development of a national modern school in Belgium. At least for Holland, the Exchange was more seminal, even if it lacked the revolutionary character of Wright’s houses of these years or Perret’s block of flats in the Rue Franklin in Paris. A fairer comparison would be with Voysey’s contemporary houses, the work of an architect who was by intention rather a ‘reformer’ than a drastic innovator, or with Martin Nyrop’s Town Hall in Copenhagen begun five years earlier.

Berlage’s near-Richardsonian mode of this period is still better illustrated in a smaller structure, that built for the Diamond Workers’ Trade Union in the Henri Polak Laan in Amsterdam in 1899-1900 (Plate 150). In this, the organization of the windows into a sort of brick-mullioned screen and the less aggressive handling of the carved stone detail produces a façade not unworthy of comparison with Richardson’s Sever Hall or Gaudí’s Casa Güell (Plate 96B). It is notable, however, that it is work of the seventies and eighties in America and in Spain that comes to mind, not work of this date.

The Hotel American of 1898-1900 in the Leidse Plein in Amsterdam by Willem Kromhout (1864-1940) illustrates how boldly Berlage’s line was taken by other local architects, and his relative originality even outrivalled. But the lead came in Kromhout’s case not from Berlage, but from Cuijpers’s nephew Eduard (1859-1927), a transitional figure whose work deserves more attention outside Holland than it has generally received. Kromhout’s touch is lighter than Berlage’s, as is also, to make a poor pun, the colour of his pale buff bricks, but his expression of structure is less ‘real’ and more frankly fantastic. In the detail of the exterior, and even more in the interiors, he was undoubtedly seeking to create a sort of Dutch alternative to the Art Nouveau, not curvilinear or naturalistically ‘organic’ but richly decorative in a semi-abstract way. The intention was worthy; the result, alas, is rather tawdry.

It was not in the design of sumptuous individual buildings but in low-cost housing and in city-planning that Berlage himself was most

## active in the next fifteen years. In 1908, for example, he prepared a

plan for the extension of The Hague, and in 1915 a more ambitious one for Amsterdam. He had built his first blocks of flats in the Linnaeusstraat in Amsterdam in 1905. These are much less Romanesquoid than his earlier work but they are equally brusque as to the detailing. However, his architecture shortly grew much suaver. Berlage’s finest work of any period, perhaps, is not in Holland but in the City of London, Holland House of 1914 at 1-4 Bury Street, E.C. This has a reticulated façade of moulded terracotta members more Sullivanian than Richardsonian in its verticality (Plate 138B)—and by this time he certainly knew Sullivan’s work.

The influence of Berlage in Holland was by this time very great and the esteem in which he was held—at least as much for his doctrine of direct structural expression as for his executed work—by no means restricted to his own country, since his writings were published in Germany as well as in Holland.[437] Yet, to foreign eyes, the achievement of the new school that grew up partly under his inspiration in Amsterdam is greater than his own. The work of this ‘Amsterdam School’—for it was soon so called—which flourished particularly in the decade 1912-22 is at times very close to that of the German architects influenced by Expressionism in the early twenties; but it began much earlier and has a strongly autochthonous flavour.[438] German Expressionism never inspired a building more stridently angular than the Scheepvaarthuis that J. M. van der Meij (b. 1868), a pupil of Eduard Cuijpers, built to house dock offices on the Prins Hendrik Kade in Amsterdam in 1912-13. The most extreme example of the abandon with which twentieth-century Dutch architects set out on new paths, this opened the way for the housing work of van der Meij’s assistants Michael de Klerk (1884-1923) and P. L. Kramer (1881-1961), both also pupils of Eduard Cuijpers, which represents internationally the greatest Dutch contribution to modern architecture. As the master of these three, Eduard Cuijpers, despite his own historicism, has perhaps as much right as Berlage to be considered a father of the Amsterdam School. Their work, moreover, has some analogies not only with German Expressionism but also with Wright’s contemporary Baroque phase of 1914-24. However, the crystallization of de Klerk’s personal style preceded the beginning of Wright’s influence in Holland and, when that influence began during the years of the First World War, it operated in fact to counter the extravagances of the Amsterdam School.

Early buildings by de Klerk, such as the first Eigen Haard Estate housing blocks that were designed in 1913 and erected round the Spaandammerplantsoen on the west side of Amsterdam, have a quaintness that recalls English or American work of a generation earlier rather than van der Meij’s aggressive angularity. They look almost as if they were especially fanciful projects of the Shingle Style that happened to be executed in brick instead of wood. But the elegant underscaled local brick is handled with extraordinary virtuosity, and the façades achieve a stage-set-like unreality in sharpest contrast to the often dreary matter-of-factness of low-cost housing produced in other countries in these same years. Although the first Eigen Haard blocks were, in planning and general organization, as straightforward as Berlage’s, they have a warmer human touch such as architects elsewhere—Behrens, for example, or the Scandinavians—either missed entirely or attempted to attain by a parsimonious use of more or less ‘traditional’ detailing.

The extension of the Eigen Haard Estate along the Zaanstraat, begun in 1917, represents perhaps the peak of de Klerk’s achievement (Plate 156B). Here the many curved wall elements bring out the special qualities of Dutch brickwork; and the rather heavy wooden window-frames, brought forward as in Hoffmann’s Stoclet house to the wall-plane, give continuity to the plastic modelling of the façades. Highly imaginative, even whimsical, features of detail, such as the barrel-like corner oriel, give an air of good humour, and even of the outright humorous, that is rare in any other architecture, ancient or modern; but these features are for the most part truly architectonic, not merely decorative. De Klerk’s whimsy is never nightmarish, in the way Gaudí’s can be, nor loud and aggressive like van der Meij’s. His highly personal style can be considered a sort of _barocchino_ of the early twentieth century.

The extreme point of de Klerk’s invention is seen in the post office that occupies the apex of the later portion of the Eigen Haard Estate. This is like nothing so much as a child’s toy enlarged to architectural scale in some contemporary setting for Diaghilev’s Ballet Russe.[439] After this his work grew somewhat simpler and more orderly. Already the blocks he designed in 1920 for an area round the Henriette Ronnerplein in the De Dageraad Estate on the south-east side of Amsterdam are more regular and restrained; the plainest of all is the very long continuous range near by in the Amstellaan built in 1921-2.

Also in the De Dageraad Estate, in the portion that runs down both sides of the P. L. Takstraat, along the Burgemeester Tellegenstraat and into the Talmastraat, Kramer showed himself even more of a virtuoso in the handling of curved wall elements of brick—here brown and buff—than de Klerk (Plate 156A). Projected in 1918 and built in 1921-3, Kramer’s scheme combined tall and very plastic features at the street intersections with notably straightforward three-storey ranges in between. Thus he produced an extensive urbanistic ensemble of great homogeneity of character, yet very considerable variety of visual interest, and with a quality of craftsmanship perhaps superior to de Klerk’s. But by the time this was completed Kramer had become even more chastened than de Klerk in his last work in the Amstellaan. In Kramer’s Amsterdam West housing, begun in 1923, the façades are plain and flat with continuous bands of white-sashed windows. Thus these blocks are definitely related to the direction that modern architecture was taking in Holland as in France and Germany in these years at the hands of men of Kramer’s own generation (see Chapter 22).

Kramer’s De Bijenkorf department store of 1924-6 in the Grotemarktstraat in The Hague, however, still retains much of the plastic exuberance of his earlier housing blocks and is executed with a sumptuous range of fine materials. Kramer here employed at large scale the curved surfaces of brickwork characteristic of De Dageraad, with notable success. Many Amsterdam canal bridges of these years illustrate also his virtuosity at elaborate semi-abstract detail carried out with excellent craftsmanship in wrought iron and carved or artificial stone. Moreover, in the mid twenties the Amsterdam City Architect’s office exploited with real success in various school and police buildings a manner closely approaching that of de Klerk and Kramer.

Unfashionable even in Holland for a quarter of a century, the work of the Amsterdam School merits that more sympathetic examination which the Art Nouveau has now for some years received. At its best the work of de Klerk and Kramer from the mid teens to the mid twenties has survived better than all but the finest contemporary achievements of Wright and Perret, partly because it was so well built in the first place and has been so well maintained ever since. Without being, in the proper sense of the word, Expressionist, it yet has close analogies with the Expressionist approach. It may be considered to stand in a relationship to the work of Höger and Poelzig in Germany somewhat comparable to that of Gaudí to the Art Nouveau of Brussels and Paris; for it is at once independent of outside influence and superior to the foreign work that it most closely parallels. But the Amsterdam School did not occupy the entire Dutch scene even in these, its best, years.

In no European country was the work of Frank Lloyd Wright studied earlier and with more enthusiasm than in Holland; Berlage was one of Wright’s greatest admirers after his visit to America in 1911. The influence of Wright’s work up to 1910, known through the Wasmuth publications, began to be evident in the later years of the First World War. Dirk Roosenburg (1887-1962), Jan Wils (b. 1891), J. J. Van Loghem (1882-1940), and several others were notably Wrightian in the early twenties; and the magazine _Wendingen_, edited by H. T. Wijdeveld (b. 1885), continued through the mid twenties to bring Wright’s later buildings and his projects of those years to European attention, notably devoting to him a magnificent series of special issues in 1925 which constitutes a document of signal importance for the study of his work of this period. The first German book on Wright after the Wasmuth publications did not appear until the next year, and the first in French only in 1928.

Wrightian ideas were readily accepted by many Dutch architects previously inspired chiefly by Berlage, not to speak of their influence on Berlage himself. Admiration for Wright’s work undoubtedly played a real part in the rapid modulation of Dutch architecture towards greater severity and a more geometrical discipline in the twenties. But the major significance of the lively Dutch interest in the American lies in its effect on the development of a few younger men in these years. To the Amsterdam School there had arisen a strong opposition led by architects belonging to the De Stijl group of artists who were active in Rotterdam and Utrecht. Yet the Amsterdam School architects continued for some time to be highly productive, and the work of several prominent men, notably J. F. Staal (1879-1940) and W. M. Dudok (b. 1884), was related to both camps. But by the time Berlage was engaged on the big concrete-framed Netherlands Insurance Company Building in The Hague in 1925-6 its very Wrightian character had just been superseded in the projects and the production of Rietveld and Oud by a more ascetic mode parallel to that adumbrated by the new architects of France and Germany in the early twenties (see Chapter 22).

In the new building of the Scandinavian countries before and after the First World War admirers in other countries thought to recognize an originality and vitality comparable to that of contemporary Dutch work. As has already been remarked, it has since become evident that most of what was produced in these decades in Denmark and Sweden did not really differ very much from the work of ‘traditionalists’ elsewhere. Despite extremely elegant and often piquant stylization, comparable but superior to that of most German work in this period, continued maintenance of inherited principles of design and the general use of reminiscent detail sharply differentiated the characteristic production of the Scandinavians from that of the Dutch, and of course far more from that of Wright or Loos. What such men as Ragnar Östberg (1866-1945), and E. G. Asplund (1885-1940) down to his sharp change of style in the late twenties, designed and built in Sweden or P. V. Jensen Klint (1853-1930) and Kay Fisker (b. 1893)—down to his parallel change of style—in Denmark was generally still rated ‘modern’ a generation ago; almost all of it may now be more properly classed with ‘traditional’ work in other countries. In quality, however, it often more than rivals all but the finest modern German, Austrian, and Dutch work of its day (see Chapter 24).

An exception to this statement as regards Sweden is the remarkable Engelbrekt Church of 1904-14 in Stockholm by L. I. Wahlman (b. 1870), with its great parabolic arches and its vertically massed exterior dominated by a very tall and svelte tower; there much of the experimentalism of the nineties lived on. For its influence, this is possibly a more important twentieth-century church than Perret’s at Le Raincy. An even more considerable exception is a large part of the prolific production of the Finnish architect Eliel Saarinen (1873-1950) both in the Old World and in the New. Saarinen was the leading architect of Finland down to the twenties; after his removal to the United States he was Wright’s only rival of his own generation on the American scene, the careers of the early modern architects of the West Coast being by then in decline (see Chapter 19).

Saarinen’s earliest work in partnership with Herman Gesellius (1874-1916) and A. E. Lindgren (1874-1929) dates from the nineties. In 1900 he designed the Finnish Pavilion at the Paris Exhibition; this offered a powerful, though rather cranky, statement of Nordic originality quite opposed to the Latin elegance of the contemporary Art Nouveau and not without kinship to Berlage’s Amsterdam Exchange. At home important public commissions followed rapidly: the National Museum in Helsinki in 1902 and the Helsinki railway station, for which he won the competition in 1904. This large and complex structure, built over the years 1910-14, is Saarinen’s principal early work. In size and in monumentality it rivals Bonatz’s Stuttgart station and also the vast stations that ‘traditional’ architects in America were building at much the same time (see Chapter 24). But there is much less of ‘tradition’ here than at the Stuttgart or, _a fortiori_, in the American stations. The heaviness and the grandeur are more than a little Germanic so that the fairest comparison is with Stürzenacker’s Karlsruhe station, on the whole more straightforward in design and certainly much more delicately detailed.

Saarinen’s achievement in his homeland made him well known throughout Europe; as early as 1905 one of his principal works had been a country house, Molchow, in Brandenburg in Germany. The project that he entered in the Chicago Tribune Tower competition in 1922 brought him suddenly to American attention. Although a Gothic design by John Mead Howells (b. 1868) and Raymond Hood (1881-1934) won this competition and was executed[440] on Michigan Avenue, in 1923-5, Saarinen’s project (which in any case received a financially generous second premium) had a tremendous _succès d’estime_, including the accolade of Sullivan himself. In retrospect the design appears almost as medievalizing as Howells & Hood’s; but the elegance of the silhouette and the consistency of the detailing, stylized nearly to the point of absolute originality, had an enormous contemporary appeal.

By this time Americans were beginning to grow bored with the increasingly forced adaptation of familiar styles of the past to skyscraper design. Yet in 1922 they were hardly ready to recognize the positive qualities of the very plain reticulated tower, elaborated with certain minor Constructivist touches, that was proposed by Walter Gropius (b. 1883) and Adolf Meyer (d. 1925) (Plate 158A). Today it is easy to see how close this came to reviving the Chicago tradition of the early skyscrapers, a tradition almost forgotten since the First World War, as also its great importance in the crystallization of a new architecture in the early twenties (see Chapter 22).

Saarinen, after settling in the United States in 1922, designed various other skyscrapers along the lines of his Chicago project, none of them built. However, other architects at once picked up his relatively novel ideas; and undoubtedly his ideas played an important part in turning American skyscraper architects away from their long-continued dependence on the styles of the past. Hood himself was not least affected, as his black and gold American Radiator Building[441] on West 40th Street in New York, completed in 1924 even before the Chicago Tribune Tower, soon made evident. In Detroit, near which city Saarinen settled, Albert Kahn’s Fisher Building is even more Saarinenesque and quite unrelated to his contemporary factories.

Called to Bloomfield Hills, Mich., by the Booth publishing family, Saarinen’s first work in America was the Cranbrook School for Boys, a very extensive group of buildings begun in 1925. Here an almost Swedish elegance of craftsmanship and a profusion of semi-traditional detail were combined in a somewhat whimsical manner rather recalling English work of forty or fifty years earlier. The girls’ school near by, however, Kingswood, begun in 1929, is much simpler, with an almost Wrightian horizontality and crispness of expression.

When American building activity revived in the late thirties Saarinen continued to develop. From 1937 on his American-trained son Eero (1911-61), destined later to be one of the leaders of post-war architecture in the United States, doubtless played some part in encouraging that bolder structural expression and increasing sparseness of ornamentation that characterizes his finest late works. These qualities are already very evident in the Kleinhans Music Hall in Buffalo, N.Y., of 1938; while the contrast between the straightforwardness of the Crow Island School in Winnetka, Ill., of 1939, on which the Chicago firm of Perkins, Wheeler & Will collaborated, and the quaintness and fussiness of the Cranbrook School is quite startling.

Most distinguished of all the late Saarinen works are his Tabernacle Church at Columbus, Ind., designed in 1940 and built in 1941-2, and the similar but smaller Christ Lutheran Church in Minneapolis that was built in 1949 just before his death (Plate 157B). Cool, clear, and rational, the distinguished handling of brickwork in these churches, the knowing control of light, and the careful ordering of space in the interiors remain exemplary. Their towers are more refined versions of Moser’s on Sankt Antonius in Basel; yet the massing of their blocky external elements almost seems to belong to an earlier tradition, that of the English Victorian Gothic churches of the third quarter of the nineteenth century, whose reminiscent forms they wholly abjure, and with which neither of the Saarinens was probably familiar.

Of the first generation of modern architects not even Wright still survives. As long as he continued in active production the story that the last four chapters have tried to tell could not be completed but in 1959, with his death, an architectural epoch came finally to an end. It was a rich epoch and a complex one because the men of that generation were all great individualists and proud of it. In most countries they had to fight a vigorous battle for the right to personal expression, a battle that they carried through to recognition against entrenched inertia, both professional and lay. Yet in general, the links of this generation with the later nineteenth century remained close, both in their dependence on handicraft and in their frequent tendency—least evident with Wright and Loos—to accept (up to a point) personal stylization of earlier architectural forms[442] as a substitute for that basic originality of which all were at their best truly capable.

Not since the late eighteenth century had there been any such wide international renewal of architectural aspiration. Just as then, a new generation would profit from the experiments of their elders, taking much from each, but rejecting much as well, in order to create a style—or at least a discipline—aiming at universality. By its essential principles, this discipline could not have the variety and the intensity of personal expression which gives such colour and life to the work of the older men. Just as in the early nineteenth century, however, the architects who succeeded the great originals were far more able than they to work together. By joining their individual efforts the men of the next generation changed the character of almost all architectural production in a way that their elders were quite unable to do. Thus there came into being an architecture more completely of its own century than any style-phase of the previous hundred years—up to the Art Nouveau at least—had ever been wholly of the nineteenth century.

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## CHAPTER 22

THE EARLY WORK OF THE SECOND GENERATION: WALTER GROPIUS, LE CORBUSIER, MIES VAN DER ROHE, AND THE DUTCH

THE project that Gropius and Meyer offered in the competition of 1922 for the Chicago Tribune Tower, unlike Saarinen’s, attracted very little contemporary attention in America (Plate 158A). Such a stripped expression of skeleton construction had, up to that time in America, been seen only in factories and warehouses. Even in Chicago, moreover, the New York ideal of the shaped tower had quite replaced the Sullivanian slab as the favourite form for pretentious skyscrapers. Ten years later, however, when the first International Exhibition of Modern Architecture was held at the new Museum of Modern Art in New York it was evident that the kind of architecture represented by Gropius’s project had become widely accepted in several European countries. By that date it was even possible to deduce from the executed work of Gropius and his chief European contemporaries, most of which was shown in the exhibition, the existence of a new style christened ‘international’[443] by Alfred Barr, the Museum’s director. Whether the new architecture that came into being in the twenties in Europe and has since spread throughout the western world should in fact be considered a style, or even a style-phase, remains a matter of controversy; but for forty years now it has been readily distinguishable from what the older generation of modern architects produced.

In 1922 this new architecture hardly existed except in the form of projects. Some of the most strikingly novel buildings built in the early twenties were by Willem Marinus Dudok (b. 1884) in Holland and by Erich Mendelsohn[444] (1887-1953) in Germany. These no longer belonged to the realm of the earlier, pre-war modern architecture. Yet the work of neither was as indicative of the direction the newer architecture was taking in these formative years as is the Gropius Chicago Tribune project. Very shortly, however, both Dudok and Mendelsohn drew closer to the main current of development of this decade, although they continued to be, in varying degree, individualists rather than whole-hearted converts to the dominant architectural mode of their generation.

Dudok’s work as City Architect of Hilversum, beginning with the Public Baths and the Dr H. Bavinck School in 1921, is remarkably simple and direct (Plate 157A). The abstract crispness and clarity of his compositions are very different from the whimsically curved surfaces of de Klerk’s and Kramer’s housing blocks (Plate 156A and B). This rigidly geometrical organization of the forms reflects his earlier contact with the group of Dutch abstract artists known as _De Stijl_,[445] notably the painters Piet Mondrian and Theo van Doesburg and the sculptor Georges Vantongerloo. But Dudok’s continued emphasis on the fine quality of his brickwork, the massiveness of his characteristically interlocking blocks, and a certain basically decorative intention still link his buildings of the twenties at Hilversum with the ideals of the older generation. Dudok’s work of this period was certainly novel—and even modern in a very advanced way for the date—but it remained quite Dutch in its idiosyncrasies, not ‘international’.

The plasticity of Mendelsohn’s Einstein Tower, designed in 1919 and completed in 1921, at Neubabelsberg near Berlin (Plate 153B) seems at first sight not unrelated to that of Gaudí’s hewn-stone Casa Milá in Barcelona of 1905-10 (Plate 137A). But it was originally intended to be executed in poured concrete—for technical reasons it is in fact mostly of brick rendered with cement—and what one might call the ‘overtones’ of the forms are more mechanistic than organic. Like Dudok, Mendelsohn had been influenced by a local school of painting. But the images he distorted according to the tenets of Expressionism came from the world of machines not, like Gaudí’s, from the world of plants and animals. Mendelsohn’s earlier war-time sketches[446] make this origin even more evident. The extreme point of this sort of abstract sculptural Expressionism[447] in the twenties is found in the work of no architect but in the mountainous cult edifice called the Goetheanum at Dornach in Switzerland, designed by the creator of anthroposophy Rudolf Steiner[448] and begun in 1923.

Mendelsohn himself rejected this excessively plastic approach to architecture—an approach to which a reversion can be noted on the part of Le Corbusier in the last decade, incidentally (Plate 167)—even before the Einstein Tower was completed. The hat factory that he built at Luckenwalde in 1920-3 was in the direct line of descent from the industrial work Behrens and Poelzig had done before the First World War. This was rightly recognized as one of the signal productions of those crucial years of the early twenties when the concepts of the new architecture were first being tentatively realized in France and in Holland, and very shortly, of course in Germany. Dudok’s buildings at Hilversum of the early twenties had a very considerable international influence;[449] Mendelsohn’s Einstein Tower did not, at least not on architecture.[450] However, other work of his done in the next few years was much admired and also widely emulated, both in Germany and abroad, by the younger architects.

In spite of the importance in these years of the executed work of Dudok and of Mendelsohn, several other architects certainly had far more to do with determining the direction that architecture took from 1922 on. One was a Swiss then working in Paris, Charles-Édouard Jeanneret, known as Le Corbusier. At this time more painter than architect, Le Corbusier had earlier been an assistant of Perret’s and had also worked briefly for Behrens and even for Josef Hoffmann. Two others were Dutchmen. J.J.P. Oud had practised in association with Dudok at Leiden in 1912-13, and from 1917 and 1918 he and G.T. Rietveld were in much closer contact with the artists of _De Stijl_ than Dudok ever was, being actual members of that small cohesive group. Two more were Germans, Walter Gropius and Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, both of whom had been Behrens’s assistants, respectively for two and for three years.

Gropius, born in 1883, is the eldest of the five and older than Mendelsohn also; Le Corbusier, Rietveld, and Mies were born in 1888; Oud in 1890. Gropius’s career began as early as 1906, when he erected some plain brick workmen’s houses in Pomerania even before he had finished his professional training at the Technische Hochschule in Munich. A leading professor in this school was Theodor Fischer, Bonatz’s master, in whose office Oud later spent a few months in 1911. After a year of travel in Spain, Italy, and Holland Gropius entered Behrens’s office in 1908, remaining there till 1910. On leaving Behrens he designed in 1911, with Adolf Meyer, the Fagus Factory at Alfeld-an-der-Leine. He worked again in partnership with Meyer from after the First World War until the latter’s death in 1925.

Directly as this Alfeld factory—it made shoe-lasts—follows from Behrens’s work for the A.E.G., notably the front of the Turbine Factory of 1909, its architectural expression is much more advanced (Plate 158B). There the great window remained, for all its size, but a window; here, in the main three-storey block, the slightly projecting metal chassis rise unbroken over very wide areas bounded by narrow brick piers, and the storey levels are barely indicated by solid panels identical in treatment with the glazed sash above and below them. This arrangement of transparent and opaque elements identically handled may almost—but not quite—be considered to constitute a ‘curtain-wall’.[451] The omission of piers at the corners, a structural novelty here, enormously enhances the effect of transparent volume as opposed to that of solid mass. In the organization of the various industrial elements of the complete plant that are associated with the glazed block there is neither symmetry, such as Behrens was only beginning to relinquish, nor yet asymmetry of the more casual and picturesque sort; instead a modular regularity controls the whole composition. This factory has long been recognized historically as one of the most important[452] buildings of the twentieth century.

Gropius’s next building, the Hall of Machinery at the Werkbund Exhibition of 1914 in Cologne, was in some ways less advanced. The main façades of this were quite symmetrical; and in the articulation of the brick piers of the ground storey, in the heavily framed central entrance and, above all, in the projecting slab roofs of the raised corners there appears to have been some direct influence from the work of Wright, notably from his hotel of 1909 in Mason City, Iowa. (This was published in the Wasmuth book of 1910, where Gropius would almost certainly have seen it.) The glazed front of the principal storey, however, and especially the rounded glass stair-towers at the ends were not at all Wrightian; they carried still further the expression of architecture as transparent volume already evident in the Fagus Factory and approached very closely indeed the mature curtain-wall concept, although at a modest scale.

Mies remained with Behrens a year longer than Gropius, after having spent three earlier years with Bruno Paul[453] (1874-1954), a more conservative architect whose best work was done as a furniture designer. His independent career began in a much less spectacular fashion than that of Gropius. The Perls house of 1911 at Zehlendorf outside Berlin was as formally symmetrical as Behrens’s houses at Hagen of 1908-9 and rather more Schinkelesque. The Urbig house of 1914 at Neubabelsberg was very correctly late-eighteenth-century in its detailing. His most important work of these years, however, was the project for the H. E. L. J. Kröller house in The Hague of 1912, intended to contain the large and famous Kröller-Müller Collection of modern paintings now at Otterlo. Of this a full-scale wood and canvas model was erected on the actual site, but it was never built. The formal though asymmetrical organization of the severe horizontal blocks, the incorporation of voids in the composition by means of loggias and pilastrades, and the cold austerity of the refined detailing of the masonry all approach very closely such things by Schinkel as the Zivilcasino at Potsdam and Schloss Glienecke, even if the characteristic belvedere tower of the latter is significantly omitted. In many ways this project was as premonitory of later modern architecture as the Fagus Factory, although the latter, as an executed building, has properly received much more notice.[454] Both Gropius and Mies were involved in the First World War from 1914 to 1918, so that the next stage in their careers opened only in 1919.

Le Corbusier, Oud, and Rietveld were neutral nationals, but their production of these early years, although less interrupted by the war, is mostly not of much intrinsic interest. After two years with Perret in Paris Le Corbusier had spent six months in Behrens’s office in 1910.[455] His first house,[456] built for his parents at La Chaux de Fond in Switzerland in 1913, is more closely related to Behrens’s early houses in its plain white stucco walls and fairly restricted fenestration than it is to the work of Perret or to Behrens’s A.E.G. factories of 1909-11. The plan is the most interesting feature: this provides a central living area out of which other more specialized rooms open to left and right through wide glazed doors, a scheme that seems to derive from Perret’s planning, or perhaps that of Loos,[457] rather than from Wright’s.

Le Corbusier’s next significant work was a war-time project of 1914-15 for low-cost houses called Dom-Ino. These seem to derive not from anything of Perret’s or Behrens’s but rather directly from the ones that Tony Garnier had proposed for his ‘Cité Industrielle’ as early as 1901-4,[458] but they are still plainer, probably because of the concurrent influence of Loos. However, Le Corbusier’s only important executed building of the War years, the Villa Schwoff of 1916 at La Chaux de Fond, is closer to Perret in its elaborate formality,[459] its much simplified academic detail, and its concrete-and-brick construction. The plan represents an advance over that of his parents’ house, however, for the main living area here is carried up two storeys and lighted by a tall window-wall towards the garden. Of special significance also is the arrangement of all the flat roofs as usable terraces.

The next year, 1917, _De Stijl_ was founded, and soon Oud and Rietveld as members of the group began to collaborate with the Dutch abstract painters and sculptors generally known as Neoplasticists.[460] In this year Oud built two villas by the seashore: Allegonda at Katwijk, designed in association with the architect M. Kamerlingh Onnes; and De Vonk at Noordwijkerhout, with interiors decorated by the _De Stijl_ painter and critic Theo van Doesburg. The Dutch had no direct contact with Behrens, unlike the other three, but Oud was briefly with Fischer in Munich in 1911, as has been said. However, Oud’s work down to this time had been essentially Berlagian: moreover, it was Berlage who evoked his interest in the work of Wright. Nevertheless, there is nothing Wrightian about these villas, but rather a Loos-like reduction of architecture to white stucco cubes. The interest of De Vonk is largely confined to the floors of bold geometric pattern executed in coloured tile by van Doesburg; Allegonda was much modified by Oud in 1927. Rietveld was still primarily a furniture designer until 1921.

In 1918 Oud became City Architect of Rotterdam, where his brother occupied a prominent political position, and began work at once on the Spangen Housing Estate, Blocks I and II being of that year, Blocks VIII and IX of the next. The Tuschendijken Estate followed in 1920. These housing blocks, even more than the seaside villas, are notable for their negative rather than their positive qualities. All the elaboration of form and detail of the Amsterdam School was put aside in favour of an ascetic regularity. But various projects of these years illustrate how boldly Oud was attempting, partly under the influence of his painter and sculptor friends, partly under that of Wright, to arrive at new formal concepts. But Oud was not alone in these years in attempting to translate the ideals of _De Stijl_ into architecture. Gerrit Rietveld, in a jewellery shop in Amsterdam built in 1921, was probably the first fully to realize Neoplasticist concepts in three dimensions and at architectural scale.[461]

In Paris in the first post-war years Le Corbusier was also closely involved with painters; indeed, he himself was then as much, or more, a painter as an architect, and he has never ceased painting since. With the French painter Amédée Ozenfant he had written a book on art, _Après le cubisme_, published in Paris in 1918; together they developed a post-Cubist sort of abstract painting, partly inspired by their friend Fernand Léger and partly by their interest in the simple shapes of everyday objects. This they called ‘Purisme’. In support of their ideas about all the arts they began in 1920[462] to publish a review, _L’Esprit nouveau_, which continued to appear until 1925, the nursery years of the new architecture.

In succession to his Dom-Ino system of multiple housing of 1914-15, Le Corbusier was developing at this time the Troyes system, using poured concrete, and also the Monol system with a reinforced-concrete skeleton deriving technically from the innovations of Perret. But the definitive formulation of his new ideals for architecture, focused as they were at this time on the sociological problem of the low-cost dwelling, lay a year or two ahead. Having no official position, he did not need, like Oud, to produce executed work in quantity before his own concepts matured. Gropius’s earliest work, back in 1906, had been a low-cost housing scheme, as has been noted, and in 1911 he built another housing estate, at Wittenberg-an-der-Elbe. Economical housing was increasingly recognized as a social service for which architects ought to exploit to the utmost their technical abilities; from the first it offered a common challenge to the Dutchman, the Swiss-Parisian, and the German.

Like the Dutch and Le Corbusier, Gropius was involved with painters in the early post-war years. Appointed in 1919 head of the Art School in Weimar and also of the Arts and Crafts School there which Van de Velde had run before the War, he combined them and named the new school the Bauhaus.[463] Here teachers of painting and sculpture and architecture worked in closest association with teachers of the crafts in continuation and extension of the English Arts and Crafts ideals of the eighties and nineties. Soon this rather Viennese approach, brought to the Bauhaus by Adolf Itten, with its emphasis on handicraft, was revised by Gropius so that it might better fit an increasingly industrialized society.[464] To his faculty Gropius brought such advanced painters as the German-American Lyonel Feininger in 1919 and in 1922 the Russian Wassily Kandinsky and the Swiss Paul Klee. Yet it was not their refined art but rather Expressionist painting and sculpture which still influenced the jagged War Monument that he erected in Weimar in 1921. His architectural ideals in the early post-war years before 1922, moreover, seem to have been rather closer to Poelzig’s or Mendelsohn’s than to those of Le Corbusier, Oud, or Rietveld.

[Illustration:

Figure 44. Le Corbusier: First project for Citrohan house, 1919-20, perspective ]

As has been several times stated already, certain remarkable projects best displayed the direction in which several of the architects of the younger generation were moving, along nearly parallel lines, in these years preceding the general revival of building production in the mid twenties. Gropius’s Chicago Tribune project of 1922, in which the line of his development shifted away from Expressionism, has already been discussed out of sequence (Plate 158A). But the most significant projects, earlier than this by several years, were by Mies and by Le Corbusier. Mies’s early work had not been very adventurous up to the time when he proposed, in 1919 and in 1920-1, two revolutionary glazed skyscrapers to be built in Berlin. In both, the floors were to be cantilevered out from central supporting cores and the curtain-walls enclosing them merely light metal chassis holding great panes of glass. However, their plans, respectively jagged and curvilinear, reflected the strong influence of Expressionism, an influence that disappeared from Mies’s as from Gropius’s work the very next year, after the Germans became aware of the architectural implications of Dutch Neoplasticism and also of Russian Constructivism. Van Doesburg,[465] it should be noted, visited the Bauhaus in 1922, and for a short but crucial period both Gropius and Mies seem to have drawn from Dutch sources as much inspiration as the young Dutch architects. In addition to the obvious debts of Dudok, Oud, and Rietveld to Neoplasticism, Cornelis van Eesteren (b. 1897), today City Architect of Amsterdam, was actually collaborating with van Doesburg in these years on various house projects.

Less striking than Mies’s skyscrapers, but more buildable, were Le Corbusier’s successive Citrohan projects for houses of 1919-22 (Plate 160A; Figures 44 and 45). Brought to public attention first in _L’Esprit nouveau_ and later in his extremely influential book _Vers une architecture_, published in Paris in 1923 and shortly translated into English and German, these adumbrated a new aesthetic of architecture more completely than anything that he or any other architect had yet proposed on paper, much less built. Modest in size, each Citrohan house was to consist largely of a two-storey living-room fronted like that of the La Chaux de Fond house of 1916 with a tall window-wall. This would occupy most of the façade, and it was here set within a very plain frame of rendered concrete. The dining area was to be at the rear under a balcony from which the bedroom would open. Thus the section is similar to Wright’s Millard house of 1923.

The earlier version of the house was intended to stand on the ground (Figure 44); in the later scheme the whole cube of the house was to be lifted up on _pilotis_, that is, free-standing piers of reinforced concrete constituting, Perret-like, essential parts of the structural skeleton (Plate 160A; Figure 45). Like Sullivan’s piers at the base of the Guaranty Building of 1894-5 (Plate #119:pl119) the effect of these _pilotis_, allowing circumambient space to pass under the enclosed building above, was to enhance very strongly the look of volume as opposed to mass. This treatment, possible only with skeleton construction in ferro-concrete, steel, or wood, soon became one of the most significant formal devices differentiating the new architecture of the twenties from what preceded it. The later Citrohan project was thus the first of the ‘boxes on stilts’ against which Wright continually protested, even though his own buildings themselves tended more and more frequently to be lifted off the ground by one means or another.

[Illustration:

Figure 45. Le Corbusier: Second project for Citrohan house, 1922, plans and section ]

If the structural methods employed here by Le Corbusier came from Perret, the external expression of his lifted box seems rather to derive from Garnier or Loos, although the rendered surfaces were evidently intended to be smoother and flatter than those of Loos’s executed houses (Plate 155A) and the pattern of the windows much more regularly organized in the wall-plane. With the roof terrace on top surrounded by parapets continuous with the wall-planes below, even the earlier type is apprehended as volume rather than mass, especially as there were no deep window reveals to suggest thickness in the walls such as appear in Garnier’s projects and Loos’s executed work. By keeping the openings absolutely in the wall-plane, as Hoffmann had done on the Stoclet house, the very exact geometrical discipline of the design of the façades could be maintained even when seen in perspective. As a result, however, the underlying structure was expressed only in the _pilotis_ of the later project. Yet the wide expanse of the window-wall at the front and the characteristic shape of the other windows, oblongs extended horizontally,[466] would obviously not have been practical but for the long spans made possible by the ferro-concrete skeleton.

There was in the Citrohan projects no very close similarity to Le Corbusier’s Purist pictures of these years other than the crisply geometrical ordering of the very flat façades and the untextured smoothness of their surfaces. However, the extreme mechanical precision and the more-than-Loosian rejection of the inessential clearly reflected an aesthetic parallel to that adumbrated in his paintings. Certainly the effect was—as Wright and others recurrently complained—likely to prove more pictorial than architectonic when such things were executed. There was no ornament such as Oud had, in some sense, obtained at Katwijk from his painter-collaborator van Doesburg; indeed, there was hardly any detail at all, at least as architectural detail was understood by Perret and Behrens. In this respect also Le Corbusier’s new architecture was closest to the personal style of Loos.

Articles in _L’Esprit nouveau_ and later the illustrations in _Vers une architecture_ revealed the sources of Le Corbusier’s extra-architectural inspiration and made such inspiration available to others who cared to look about them with his particular vision and his clearly defined ideals for the modern world. Works of engineering, American grain-elevators and the like;[467] the forms of things that move—ocean liners, motor cars and aeroplanes:[468] such things provided some of the visual prototypes for Le Corbusier’s new aesthetic of architecture.[469] But there was also the social motive of developing a method of building houses to satisfy the needs of all classes. Moreover, Le Corbusier was already—to use a term introduced later—as much a ‘planner’ as an architect. In 1922 he prepared a project for a city of three million inhabitants. This proposed at the core a geometrically ordered group of widely spaced cruciform skyscrapers and, round the core, ranges of blocks of flats of moderate height, not arranged along narrow streets, but broadly distributed over a park-like terrain.

Le Corbusier had many years to wait before the world caught up with his ideas as a planner as these were promulgated in his book _Urbanisme_, published in Paris in 1925. But as an architect[470] he was shortly building in and near Paris a series of houses, most of them of considerably greater size than his Citrohan project. Moreover, in 1927, at the Werkbund Exhibition in Stuttgart, he finally brought that to execution also, although some minor modifications were incorporated.[471] Le Corbusier’s very first post-war houses—one at Vaucresson, S.-et-O., near Paris, which has been remodelled quite beyond recognition, and the house for Ozenfant at 53 Avenue Reille in the Montrouge district of Paris, both designed in 1922 and built in 1923—were naturally not very adequate expressions of his ideals[472] (Figure 46). But, beginning with the contiguous La Roche and Jeanneret houses, designed originally in 1922 also and executed with many modifications and improvements in 1924 in the Square du Dr Blanche in the Auteuil district of Paris, and culminating in the Savoye house at Poissy, S.-et-O., of 1929-30 (Plate 159), the new aesthetic[473] of the Citrohan project was exploited with increasing virtuosity. Le Corbusier developed much further the spatial unity of his plans, usually keeping inside a defining rectangle but articulating that in various ways: at the Savoye house, for example, the main terrace is within the same raised box as the enclosed rooms (Figure 47). The treatment of the exteriors likewise grew simpler and more open. Horizontal windows were grouped and extended to form continuous ribbons all the way across façades, and roofs at various levels, being completely flat, served as outdoor living-spaces. This is best seen at Les Terrasses (Plate 160B), the house built in 1927 for Michael Stein at 17 Rue du Professeur Pauchet in Garches, S.-et-O.

[Illustration:

Figure 46. Le Corbusier: Vaucresson, S.-et-O., house, 1923, plans ]

Different colours were often used on different walls to emphasize them as individual planes, particularly in interiors. Curved elements, such as were introduced earlier in the plan of the Vaucresson house (Figure 46), appeared at the Savoye house in screens that rose around the upper roof-terrace (Plate 159). Moreover, the geometrical discipline of his _tracés régulateurs_ based on the Golden Section was used with ever-increasing consistency.[474] At the same time the use of different colours and of curves produced, particularly at the Savoye house, a lyricism closely related to that of Purist paintings of the early twenties. This is curious, since in his paintings dating from the late twenties Le Corbusier was moving away from Purism, under the influence of Fernand Léger (and perhaps even of Surrealism), towards a looser and more connotative mode.

[Illustration:

Figure 47. Le Corbusier: Poissy, S.-et-O., Savoye house, 1929-30, plan ]

Le Corbusier was not the only architect of the new generation building houses in Paris in these years. Beside his, those by the Belgian Robert Mallet-Stevens (b. 1886)[475] are at once cruder and more superficial in their design. In the Rue Mallet-Stevens near Le Corbusier’s La Roche and Jeanneret houses, where he built several houses close together in 1926-7, he provided a somewhat depressing glimpse of the future, a glimpse which has often proved, alas, to be only too accurate a generation later. The Cité Seurat, on the other side of Paris near Le Corbusier’s Ozenfant house, offered an even larger group of new houses of the same period, several of them of much higher quality. The Chana Orloff house there is by Perret; but most of the others are by André Lurçat[476] (b. 1892), an architect of much more integrity than Mallet-Stevens, if without Le Corbusier’s genius. The best of Lurçat’s houses, where they have been adequately maintained, possess certain common-sense virtues that Le Corbusier’s lack; in the late twenties and early thirties they provided paradigms at least as popular as Le Corbusier’s. His school of 1931 in Villejuif, Seine, has a special importance also, as it was in the field of school-building[477] that the new architecture first became widely accepted later in the thirties in several countries. Le Corbusier’s activity was much greater than Lurçat’s, however, and in one major project at least he extended the scope of the new architecture far beyond the realm of the modest private dwellings that he and Lurçat were so largely restricted to building in the twenties.

In 1925, in the Pavilion de l’Esprit Nouveau at the Paris Exposition des Arts Décoratifs, Le Corbusier had shown a dwelling unit of the Citrohan type arranged as a flat with a large terrace at one side, following an unexecuted project of 1922. The actual housing estate that he built at Pessac outside Bordeaux in 1925-6 was less successful, although by this time many young architects concerned with housing in other countries were finding inspiration in his work and perhaps even more in his ideas. But it was in an entirely different realm that Le Corbusier had, like Saarinen in the Chicago Tribune competition, a failure which was nonetheless a tremendous _succès d’estime_. Le Corbusier’s project for the Palace of the League of Nations[478] came very close to winning the competition of 1927. Moreover, the totally undistinguished scheme jointly produced by the elderly Frenchman P.-H. Nénot (1853-1934), who had built the new Sorbonne in Paris in 1884-9, and various other architects from several different countries eventually executed in Geneva never received the attention or the flattery of world-wide emulation and imitation which Le Corbusier’s project did. This led, for example, to his selection to design the Centrosoyus in Moscow in 1928. Begun the following year, this was finally finished in 1936, but with most inadequate supervision. However, the Communist ‘party line’[479] turned sharply against modern architecture in the early thirties, and no more projects by Western European architects were invited after the Palace of the Soviets competition held in 1931.

If Le Corbusier in the twenties was, by force of circumstances, almost more completely restricted to house-building than Wright had been in the preceding decades, Gropius’s career in Germany developed very differently. In 1925 he was invited by the city of Dessau to come there from Weimar and re-establish the Bauhaus; in that year and the next he had a chance to build a very large and complex structure to house the school as well as his own and several other professors’ houses. The houses were not notable additions to the new canon, although they were soon as much imitated as Le Corbusier’s and Lurçat’s. However, the Bauhaus building itself was the first major example of the new architecture to be executed, illustrating on a large scale most of its possibilities and principal themes, none of them by this date altogether novel.

The most striking element of the Bauhaus is the studio block, a four-storeyed glass box (Plate 161A). This carried to its logical limit the implications of the near-curtain-wall of the Fagus Factory, quite as Mies had already proposed for his two glass skyscraper projects, but without their Expressionist planning. The bridge to the left of this block exploits the possibilities of great spans in ferro-concrete construction. Throughout that section and the block on the left ribbon-windows longer than Le Corbusier’s at Les Terrasses open up the walls just as Mies had already proposed to do in a notable project of 1922 for a ferro-concrete office building. A lower refectory wing links the glazed block with an apartment tower at the rear; in that the grouping of the horizontal windows with the many little projecting balconies clearly expresses the fact that this portion of the building is made up of small repeated dwelling units.

The organization of this very complex structure is asymmetrical but carefully studied (Figure 48). Where Le Corbusier had thus far composed most of his houses inside a single ‘box’, Gropius here combined four or more. In each he emphasized visually the fact that the surface was but a thin shell enclosing an internal volume, but he varied the treatment according to the internal use of each portion of the building. At the same time regularity of rhythm, and often identity of measure in the parts, ordered the whole without recourse to symmetry or to the imposition of any such special system of proportion as Le Corbusier was enthusiastically developing.

Gropius did not again, until late in life in America, have such another architectural opportunity. In the following years, down to his departure from Germany with the rise of Hitler, his production was almost entirely in the field of low-cost housing. There he had the large-scale responsibilities largely denied to Le Corbusier until after the Second World War, but common enough by then in Germany.[480] First, in 1926-8, came the Törten Estate at Dessau consisting of terrace houses of concrete with smoothly rendered walls and horizontal windows. These were sound and economical but somewhat dull in design, the very reverse of Le Corbusier’s at Pessac. At the Werkbund Exhibition of 1927, moreover, Gropius’s free-standing houses did not rival Le Corbusier’s in quality of design, despite their considerable technical importance as early examples of something approaching total prefabrication.

[Illustration:

Figure 48. Walter Gropius: Dessau, Bauhaus, 1925-6, plans ]

Gropius’s most finished works of the twenties were all at Dessau. Besides the Bauhaus itself, there is a small block of flats rising at the end of a row of one-storey shops to form the centre of the Törten Estate of 1928. But even more notable is the Dessau City Employment Office, begun the year before. Here Gropius rejected stucco rendering,[481] hitherto almost as much the sign manual of the new architecture in Germany as in France, and surfaced his walls with brick (Plate 161B). The horizontal strips of window in the office wing, carefully related to the narrow bands of wall between and elegantly subdivided by light metal sash, are balanced with bold assurance against the tall vertical light of the stair tower at one end. Whether Gropius had learned from the Neoplasticists or the Constructivists, by this time he had become a master of abstract architectural composition in his own right.

Leaving the Bauhaus in 1928, Gropius next undertook a large housing estate, Dammerstock, at Karlsruhe. Here he combined terrace houses, somewhat ampler in size and less mechanically designed than those at Törten, with ranges of six-storey blocks of flats in the form of long, rigidly orientated slabs. Following this came the Siemensstadt Estate of 1930 outside Berlin (Plate 162A). This is the classic example of housing in tall, thin slabs, prototype of innumerable similar estates to be built throughout the western world before and after the Second World War. In Germany, however, where the form was first adumbrated, their production ceased in 1933 with the onset of the Hitler regime—it has since been revived very actively, particularly by Ernst May at Hamburg and by architects of several countries in the Interbau exhibition of 1957 in Berlin.

[Illustration:

Figure 49. Ludwig Mies van der Rohe: Project for brick country house, 1922, plan ]

Mies in the twenties was not nearly so prolific as Gropius, nor was he so widely influential. His Wolf house of 1926 at Guben and the Lange and Esters houses at Krefeld of 1926 and 1928, side by side in the Wilhelmshofallee, despite their fine dark brickwork[482] and the careful placing of the large horizontal windows, did not redeem the promise of an earlier project which he had made in 1922 for a country house; that was comparable in significance to his skyscraper schemes of the preceding years. Its plan seemed to represent the extension upward of a complex, but very rigid, geometrical pattern like those seen in Mondriaan’s and van Doesburg’s paintings of this period (Figure 49). This sort of planning allowed a continuous flow of space in and around internal partitioning elements and out through wall-high glass areas to the surrounding terraces, themselves defined by the extension of the solid brick walls of the house. This openness more than rivalled, and was probably influenced by, the spatial flow in the Prairie Houses of Wright. Neoplasticist influence continued strong in Mies’s work as late as his Liebknecht-Luxemburg Monument in Berlin of 1926. This was an abstract rectangular block, ingeniously composed of various brick surfaces arranged in different planes. (It was, of course, destroyed under Hitler.)

The flats that Mies built in the Afrikanische Strasse in Berlin in 1924-5 were more in line with Gropius’s and Le Corbusier’s contemporary work than his private houses. Moreover, his block of flats (Plate 162B) at the Werkbund Exhibition of 1927 on the Weissenhof at Stuttgart, of which he was the general director, with its lines of broad window-bands broken occasionally by vertical stair-windows, had an elasticity of planning and a clarity and subtlety of expression much superior to Gropius’s taller and longer slabs at Dammerstock and Siemensstadt.

In 1929 came Mies’s masterpiece, one of the few buildings by which the twentieth century might wish to be measured against the great ages of the past (Plate 165A). The German Pavilion at the Barcelona Exhibition, although built of permanent materials—steel, glass, marble, and travertine—was, like most exhibition buildings, only temporary. But few structures have come to be so widely known after their demolition, or so intensely admired through reproductions, except perhaps Paxton’s Crystal Palace. Set on a raised travertine base almost like a Greek stylobate, in which lies an oblong reflecting pool, the space within the pavilion was defined by no bounding walls at all but solely by the rectangle of its thin roof-slab. This was supported, almost immaterially, on a few regularly spaced metal members of delicate cruciform section sheathed in chromium. The covered area was subdivided, rather in the manner of the project of 1922 for a brick country house, by tall plate-glass panels carried in light metal chassis, some transparent, some opaque, and also by screens of highly polished marble standing apart from the metal supports. The disposition of these screens is asymmetrical but exquisitely ordered; yet it has none of that Neoplasticist complexity evident in the placing of the partitioning elements in the project of 1922. As a result, the articulated space of the pavilion has a classic serenity quite unlike the more dynamically flowing interiors of Wright’s houses. At the Berlin Building Exhibition in 1931 Mies repeated the Barcelona Pavilion in less sumptuous materials, making only slight changes in the plan so that it might provide a model for a house.

[Illustration:

Figure 50. Ludwig Mies van der Rohe: Brno, Tugendhat house, 1930, plan ]

More than a little of the special quality of space-distribution in this exhibit Mies had been able to achieve already in the Tugendhat house of 1930 at Brno in Czechoslovakia. There also the screens that subdivide the unified living-space are quite separate from the delicate cruciform metal supports (Figure 50). One of them, made of macassar ebony,

## partially encloses the dining-area and is semicircular in plan, thus

notably enriching the general spatial effect. Externally this house is less remarkable. At the upper, or entrance, level towards the street it is quite closed in and even rather forbidding; but at the rear towards the garden there is a continuous, room-high glass wall framed by stucco bands above and below. At one end an open terrace is included within the rectangle of the plan, and from this a broad flight of stone stairs descends to the ground. The contrast with the somewhat similar rear of Le Corbusier’s Les Terrasses expresses well the considerable range of different effects possible within the tight limits of the new architecture even in this, its most rigidly doctrinaire period of the late twenties.

Within the twenties, both in France and in Germany, the new architecture received its full formulation, first in projects and shortly afterwards in executed work. At the same time Le Corbusier and Gropius provided in articles and in books the arguments in its defence.[483] Both are extremely articulate men, the one with the emotional intensity of a poet or a preacher, the other with the cool logic of a scientist or a professor. They soon found excited readers and later devoted followers all over the western world as their writings were exported, translated,[484] and paraphrased; but the significant activity of this period was by no means only French and German. Despite the continuing vitality of the Amsterdam School through the mid twenties, the new Dutch school associated with Rotterdam rose rapidly in national and international significance. Oud,[485] indeed, brought the new architecture to maturity in Holland in precisely the same years as Le Corbusier and their German contemporaries; Rietveld and several others made signal contributions also, in Rietveld’s case perhaps equal in importance to Oud’s.

The Oud Mathenesse housing estate at Rotterdam, which Oud undertook in 1922, is rather different from Spangen and Tuschendijken. At first sight it may appear more conservative, since it consists of small terrace houses with visible tiled roofs rather than tall blocks of flats. But rendered and painted walls replaced the brick of the earlier Rotterdam work, recalling the Loos-like treatment of his seaside villas as also the rather Wrightian projects he had designed in the intervening years. Moreover, the shapes and subdivisions of the windows were very carefully considered, so that the general effect is quite similar to the most advanced projects of Le Corbusier and of Mies designed in this same year. The influence of the _De Stijl_ artists may not be very apparent in the façades of the houses and shops; but in the temporary building superintendent’s office that Oud built here in 1923 cubical wooden elements painted in primary colours produced a composition quite like a Neoplasticist painting developed in three dimensions. It should be noted, however, that this was not, like Dudok’s work of the period, at all related to the very complex Neoplasticist sculpture of Vantongerloo. Oud’s façade of 1925 for the Café de Unie in Rotterdam, being two-dimensional, was even more like a Mondrian painting raised to architectural scale.

It has already been mentioned that in 1923 van Doesburg was engaged in collaboration with van Eesteren on some remarkable studies, half abstract paintings, half architectural isometrics. Rietveld, in the Schroeder house of 1924 in Utrecht (Plate 164B), boldly carried such a hypothetical Neoplasticist architecture of discrete planes and structural lines into the world of reality even more completely than in his earlier shop in Amsterdam.

But by this time, Oud felt he had learned what Neoplasticism had to offer him. He was in any case now personally closer to Mondrian than to van Doesburg, and Mondrian had left Holland for Paris. In Oud’s first really mature work, which remains also his masterpiece, two terraces with shops at their ends built at the Hook of Holland in 1926-7 but designed a year or two earlier, all overt emulation of contemporary painting disappeared, except for the restriction of colour to white-painted rendering with only small touches of the primaries on some of the minor elements of wood and metal (Plate 163B). The serenity of these smooth façades with their long regular ranges of horizontal windows, the extreme refinement of the detailing of the fences and the doorways, and, above all, the lyricism of the rounded shops, their walls all of glass under a cantilevered slab bent down at the ends, were unequalled by anything Le Corbusier or Gropius or Mies had yet built. Reputedly it was the influence of Van de Velde that led Oud to introduce curves here, much to the disgust of the Neoplasticists.

Oud’s terrace-houses in the 1927 exhibition at Stuttgart were equally exemplary in their perfection of finish but slightly less interesting in their over-all design. Those by a still younger Dutch architect, Mart Stam (b. 1899), were perhaps superior. Then there followed Oud’s very large Kiefhoek housing project at Rotterdam which was built in 1928-30. Here the windows of the upper storey of each terrace became a continuous band, but something of the earlier refinement was lost just as in Gropius’s Siemensstadt blocks of the same period.

At Kiefhoek Oud was called on to provide a church as well as housing. Its vices as well as its virtues epitomize very well the state of the new architecture at the end of the decade (Plate 164A). Considered as elements in an abstract composition, the handling of the subordinate features of the Kiefhoek church is masterly, refining and—as it were—domesticating various adjuncts of an almost industrial order such as had earlier provided a good part of the varied visual interest of Gropius’s Fagus Factory. But the main auditorium block is so box-like that it holds its place among the rows of houses only by its size, offering no expression whatsoever of its special purpose—it could as easily be a garage. A far more notable exemplar of the new architecture, still about the finest twentieth-century building in Holland, is the van Nelle Factory outside Rotterdam built in 1927-8 by the firm of J. A. Brinkman (1902-49) and L. C. van der Vlugt (b. 1894) but probably designed by Stam (Plate 163A). The Dutch firm of B. Bijvoet (b. 1889) and Johannes Duiker (1890-1935) should also be mentioned for their admirable work of the twenties, starting with several Wrightian houses of 1924 at Kijkduin, but soon quite as advanced as Oud’s or Rietveld’s.

The conditions of the twenties—or more precisely the particular conditions under which the new architects had to work and, to a large extent, even seemed satisfied to work—restricted their scope rather considerably. In France the usual clients, often American rather than French, sought houses that were _avant-garde_ and related ideologically to the painting of the Cubists and Post-Cubists. Towards the utilitarian field of low-cost housing the new architects everywhere felt a special responsibility; in Germany and Holland they readily found major opportunities for official employment at such work. Their intense concern with the aesthetic potentialities of engineering gave them a special sympathy for industrial building, but major opportunities such as the van Nelle Factory were very rare. Gropius’s Bauhaus, a large and complex structure serving a cultural purpose, and the Barcelona Pavilion, an edifice with almost no other purpose than to be beautiful, were important exceptions in a range of production characterized by a surprising international consistency of type as well as of character.

Yet the hands of the various individual architects are, in fact, never difficult to distinguish and, from this time onwards, the paths of the four early leaders began definitely to diverge. It was chiefly the work of late-comers, of whom there were in the twenties large numbers only in Germany, that tended towards monotony and anonymity. Not since the early years of the nineteenth century, when Romantic Classicism at the hands of a second generation reached a comparable clarity of stylistic definition, had there been such a rigid and humbly accepted architectural discipline. However, certain men, such as Mendelsohn and Dudok, retained in their practice of the new architecture strong traces of earlier idiosyncrasies. Much of their work lacks therefore the purity and the assured mastery of the four initiators. But Mendelsohn’s Schocken Department Stores, built in several German cities in the late twenties—at Nuremberg and Stuttgart in 1926-7, at Chemnitz in 1928—and his Petersdorf Store at Breslau in 1927 are certainly superior in interest and in vitality to the new city houses and suburban villas in France; not to speak of the housing estates in Germany that were being produced in such considerable quantity by the end of the decade by architects who were literalistic adherents of the new architecture. The work of such designers showed all the naive enthusiasm, the subjection to discipline, and the doctrinaire characteristics of the activity of new converts in any field.

But when, in his Columbus Haus of 1929-31 in Berlin, Mendelsohn finally accepted a comparable discipline he was able to retain most of his earlier vitality. Here he produced a really paradigmatic commercial building—almost a small skyscraper—such as none of the four leaders ever had the opportunity of carrying to execution in the twenties. Much the same can be said for a considerably later ‘baby skyscraper’, Dudok’s Erasmus Huis of 1939-40 in the Coolsingel in Rotterdam. This is still, after the van Nelle Factory, one of the best buildings in Rotterdam, despite all the post-war reconstruction there (see Chapter 25).

As the new architecture spread to other countries around 1930 it was naturally the lowest common denominator of its potentialities that became most widely evident. However, at just this point an international depression supervened; the building boom, with which the rise of the new architecture had been at best but coincidentally associated, soon ground to a standstill. In Germany in the early thirties, moreover, as also in Russia and considerably later and less rigidly in Italy, an authoritarian regime proscribed the new architecture. Leaders like Gropius, Mies, and Mendelsohn left the country and the new architecture was in abeyance there until after Hitler’s fall.

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## CHAPTER 23

LATER WORK OF THE LEADERS OF THE SECOND GENERATION

HISTORIANS, whether of politics or the arts, should ideally stand at some distance from their subjects thanks to remoteness in time; in lieu of that, remoteness in space sometimes serves the same purpose. However, this historian has now reached the point at which he entered the scene; he must write, as statesmen who write history are often forced to do, of events concerning which he has first-hand knowledge—and hence, alas, first-hand prejudices. Architects, the real actors in architectural history, often write as well as build; since Vitruvius there have been many whose fame depends as much on their books as on their buildings, not least several of the men with whom Part Three of this book has dealt. But those who write about architecture as historians and critics without being active builders, who merely explain, select, and illustrate the significant work of their own day or even of the past—particularly the immediate past—are to some extent minor actors on the scene also. They cannot, therefore, be merely neutral observers, reporting without _parti pris_ the ideas and the achievements of others, however hard they may try to maintain their objectivity.

To have written the only monograph on Wright to appear in French, to have provided the first account in English of the new architecture, to have published a book on the work of Oud in the late twenties, modest as these contributions were, are all actions indicating an early commitment on the part of this author. The preparation in 1931 with Philip Johnson of the first International Exhibition of Modern Architecture, held at the Museum of Modern Art in 1932, in which Le Corbusier, Gropius, Oud, and Mies were signalized as the leaders of the new architecture, and the publication—also with Philip Johnson—of the book called _The International Style_[486] at that time were even more definite and controversial acts of participation in the dialectic of architectural development in this century.

If it seems necessary to mention these publications here and not merely to refer to them in the Notes or list them in the Bibliography, it is in no spirit of boastfulness but rather of apology. From this point on the ideal objectivity of the historian, attempting disinterestedly to piece the past together from a study of its extant monuments and from relevant contemporary documents, is inevitably coloured, if not cancelled out, by the subjectivity of the critic writing of events he knew at first hand. Concerning them, of course, his present opinions have no more real historical validity than those he held and published nearer the time when the events occurred. With this proviso the canvas may now be somewhat broadened.

By the early thirties the new architecture was by no means restricted to France, Germany, and Holland, the countries where it had originated. Yet, with the possible exception of Alvar Aalto (b. 1898) in Finland, no other leader of the calibre of the early four had appeared up to that time. The building of 1928-9 at Turku for the newspaper _Turun Sanomat_ was Aalto’s first mature work to be completed. In this the plastic handling of the concrete piers[487] in the interior introduced a new and personal note of architectural expression in a frankly industrial setting. His Tuberculosis Sanatorium at Paimio of 1929-33 rivalled the Bauhaus in size, if not perhaps in complexity, and was almost the first[488] major demonstration of the special applicability of the new architecture to hospitals. The City Library at Viipuri, designed as early as 1927 but not finished until 1935, was a more original example of the new architecture. In particular, the lecture hall there, with its acoustic ceiling of irregularly wavy section made up of strips of wood, was strikingly novel.

In the United States the Lovell house in Los Angeles opened in 1929 the American career of Richard J. Neutra (b. 1892), an Austrian who had worked briefly with Wright. In this house, with its cantilevers, its broad areas of glass, and its volumetric composition, Neutra showed the completeness with which he had already rejected the broad Wrightian road and accepted the more restricted aspirations of the newer architecture of Europe. Never, perhaps, have Wright’s ideals and those of the next generation appeared so sharply opposed as at just this time, moreover. But Neutra’s mature work began only considerably later than this.

In 1930-2 the tallest of all skyscrapers, the Empire State Building by Shreve, Lamb & Harmon, was rising in New York; this was a shaped tower in the local tradition although devoid of reminiscent stylistic detail. In these same years, however, a well-established ‘traditional’ architect, George Howe (1886-1954),[489] in association with a Swiss, William E. Lescaze (b. 1896), who had been a pupil of Karl Moser, returned to the Sullivanian slab in designing the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society Building (Plate #169:pl169). Moreover, they treated their slab along the lines that the leading European exponents of the new architecture had adumbrated in the previous ten years. It would be a score of years before other skyscrapers of such significant and distinguished design were built in American cities (see Chapter 25).

In Sweden E. G. Asplund (1885-1940), whose architecture had hitherto been of a ‘Neo-Neo-Classic’ order, extremely crisp and refined but definitely reminiscent,[490] turned to the new architecture of Le Corbusier and Gropius just before he completed the Central Library of Stockholm (Plate 176A), a building first projected in 1921 but not opened until 1928 (see Chapter 24). For the Stockholm Exhibition of 1930, of which he had entire charge, Asplund was soon designing an extensive and elegantly varied range of pavilions that exploited to the full the possibilities of the new architecture. In Denmark Kay Fisker (b. 1893) underwent a somewhat less drastic conversion at much the same time.

These years also saw the beginning of the English career of Berthold Lubetkin[491] (b. 1901), a Russian who had settled in England in 1930 after working for some time in France. His early Gorilla House at the Regent’s Park Zoo in London was soon outshone by the smaller, but much more remarkable, Penguin Pool there of 1933-5, which is almost a piece of Constructivist sculpture (Plate 172B). In 1933-5 also, the tall block of middle-class flats, Highpoint I at Highgate outside London, was erected by the Tecton group, of which Lubetkin was the leading spirit. With its fine hill-top site overlooking Hampstead Heath, this cruciform tower rivalled Le Corbusier’s Clarté block in Geneva of 1930-2 in interest and in quality. Almost equally impressive, and like Highpoint hardly rivalled by comparable work in London since, is the Peter Jones Department Store in Sloane Square, designed in 1935 by William Crabtree.[492] Already in 1933 Mendelsohn had settled in England, practising there for a few years in partnership with Serge Chermayeff (b. 1900) before moving on to Israel in 1936. From 1934 to 1937 Gropius was in England working with E. Maxwell Fry (b. 1899); Marcel Breuer (b. 1902), a Hungarian pupil of Gropius from the Bauhaus, was also in England working with F. R. S. Yorke (1906-62). By the mid thirties Connell, Ward & Lucas,[493] Wells Coates (1895-1958), and Frederick Gibberd (b. 1908) were also well started on their careers.[494]

In Italy, where the projects of an architect associated with Futurism,[495] Antonio Sant’Elia (1888-1916), before his death in the First World War had offered a remarkable premonition of the new architecture of the twenties, a fresh talent at least comparable in interest and individuality to Lubetkin’s appeared on the scene in these years. The Casa del Fascio at Como of 1932-6 by Giuseppe Terragni (1904-43) is almost as original as Aalto’s Viipuri Library but very different (Plate 172A). In its use of fine marbles and in its innate classicism it recalls Mies, yet it is as Mediterranean in spirit as his work is Northern. Unfortunately, like Sant’Elia before him, Terragni was killed in the Second World War that followed within a few years after the start of his career. However, the firm of Luigi Figini (b. 1903) and Gino Pollini (b. 1903), who continue to be leaders of Italian modern architecture, also made their first mark at this time with the ‘Artist’s House’ that they showed at the Fifth Triennale in Milan in 1933. This was similarly calm and Latin in its handling of the ‘international’ vocabulary of form.

The Florence railway station, built in 1934-6 by Giovanni Michelucci (b. 1891) and five associated architects, also deserves mention. Michelucci is not to be compared with Terragni or Figini & Pollini, but his station was stylistically the most advanced in the world when it was built. Moreover, like the Casa del Fascio in Como, it offers notable evidence of the support the Fascist regime was still giving to _architettura razionale_ at a time when both in Germany and in Russia other authoritarian regimes were denouncing the International Style. The Termini Station in Rome (Plate 183B) was begun even earlier from the designs of Angiolo Mazzoni. It owes its distinguished reputation as the finest station of the twentieth century, however, to the new project of Eugenio Montuori (b. 1907) and his associates, prepared in 1947 and finally carried to effective completion in 1951 (see Chapter 25).

Yet for all the increasingly wide spread of the new architecture by the mid thirties, Le Corbusier and two Germans retained their international position of leadership despite economic depression in France and Hitlerian exile from Germany. If the amount of their executed work was much reduced—in the case of Mies for several years to nil—the geographical range of their activities was now much extended. Today, for example, Le Corbusier’s work is to be found from La Plata in Argentina to Chandigarh in India; he was also a consultant on two of the largest and most striking buildings in the New World built just before and just after the Second World War, the Ministry of Education and Public Health in Rio (Plate 171) and the United Nations Secretariat[496] in New York.

Gropius and Mies, settling in America in the late thirties, became figures of crucial importance in the reform of American architectural education[497] as well as being increasingly productive as architects since the war. At Harvard University[498] and at the Illinois Institute of Technology, respectively, they set a pace for several American architects who later became leading educators, such as Howe at Yale and W. W. Wurster (b. 1895) at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and the University of California. Mendelsohn, still very much of an individualist, but with a notable international reputation based on what he had built in England and in Israel as well as on his earlier work of the twenties in Germany, practised in America from after the war down to his death.

This extension of the field of activity and the direct influence of the European leaders further emphasized the universal character of the new architecture. Today American architects, such as the firm of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill,[499] working as far from home as Turkey, or Edward D. Stone (b. 1902), building on three continents, provide almost the most characteristic later examples of what—and in their cases most critics would agree—is not improperly called the International Style. The American Embassies in Copenhagen and in Stockholm, and the flats for embassy personnel at Neuilly and at Boulogne outside Paris, all by Rapson[500] & Van de Gracht, are perhaps the most distinguished examples of American work abroad of the 1950s.

But there would have been no El Panamá Hotel in Panama (1950) by Stone, no Istanbul Hilton Hotel (1954) by the Skidmore firm, and no such foreign building programme by the United States Government as was responsible for the executed embassies by Rapson & Van de Gracht of the early fifties and the ones since built by Eero Saarinen in London and Oslo, by Gropius and TAC in Athens, by Stone in New Delhi, and by Breuer in The Hague but for the pioneering of the Europeans, nor did that pioneering cease in the thirties. Only in Oud’s case, because of a serious indisposition that removed him from practice for many years after 1930, was the _œuvre_ effectively complete with the twenties; and even he is now quite active again. In the case of both Le Corbusier and Mies, if not of Gropius, their largest commissions came only after the Second World War. Their influence in the 1950s was still as great as around 1930, in Mies’s case considerably greater. The mid twentieth century had come to accept stylistic continuity in a way that the nineteenth century, was never able to do once the tradition of Romantic Classicism finally wore out. The often adventurous late work of these men, now become elder statesmen of modern architecture, fortunately counter-balanced to some extent those more rigid interpretations of the discipline they founded, interpretations that recurrently threatened after the late twenties to become academic and frozen in one country or another.

Many of the more characteristic demands of Le Corbusier’s aesthetic canon, as it had been announced in his projects of the early twenties and adumbrated in the succession of houses that led up to the Savoye house of 1929-30—including restrictions docilely accepted almost everywhere by advanced architects in the late twenties—were already ignored in the buildings he himself designed in the early thirties. The house that he built for Hélène de Mandrot at Le Pradet in Provence in 193O-1 is raised on no _pilotis_ but sits firmly on a terrace; and its walls, where solid, are of rough, uncoursed rubble. Quiet and rectangular, with no lyrically curved elements and little painted colour, this house accepts the surrounding landscape as Wright’s had always done. Le Corbusier seemed here almost to be avowing a respect for local materials and humble village craftsmanship such as is associated with Voysey and his English contemporaries of a generation earlier that would certainly have been anathema to him in the twenties. On the other hand, the penthouse that he built in 1931 for Carlos de Beistegui on top of a block of flats on the Champs Élysées in Paris was all of plate glass and white marble. This had something of the glittering elegance of Mies’s Barcelona Pavilion of two years earlier, where the polished marbles, once so brilliantly exploited by Loos, were first brought back after a decade of restriction to ascetic and impermanent surfaces of painted stucco.

The Salvation Army Building which Le Corbusier erected in 1931-2 in the Rue Cantagrel in Paris is more in line with the canon of the twenties. Unfortunately the original curtain-wall is now cut up by projecting sun-breaks added in a post-war refurbishing by Le Corbusier’s former partner Pierre Jeanneret. The Maison Clarté block of flats of 1930-2 in Geneva is almost as completely glass-walled.

It was most notably the Swiss Hostel at the Cité Universitaire in Paris, designed in 1930 and built in 1931-2, which introduced various quite new elements of plan and design that Le Corbusier would develop much further after the Second World War (Plate 165B). The _pilotis_ he used in the twenties were thin and round, rather like Perret’s columns, though without their facets and capitals; but here a double row of heavy piers of a complex moulded section carries a dormitory block that is boldly cantilevered out from them both front and back. The rubble masonry of the Mandrot house was used here once more for a tall unbroken wall of irregularly curved plan at the rear of the building; the textured and tonal surface of this wall and its effect of solidity contrasts both with the exposed concrete of the structural elements and with the smooth areas of thin stone plaquage on the upper walls. Curves in Le Corbusier’s earlier work were almost always confined within a bounding rectangle and never made of massive materials; yet they lost none of their elegance in being handled in this bolder and more organic way. This is closely related to his later paintings, of which the mural in the common room here provides a major example.

The international depression closed in even more completely on France in the early thirties than it did elsewhere, and there was no subsequent revival of building activity such as other countries experienced in the years preceding the Second World War. Le Corbusier’s activities were therefore more and more confined to projects, most of them for commissions outside France. However, a small block of flats, very similar to the Maison Clarté in Geneva, was built at 24 Avenue Nungesser et Coli on the western edge of Paris in 1933. The most interesting portion of this is the architect’s own penthouse on top; there, like another Soane, he experimented at small scale with a variety of vault-topped spaces.

In a modest house at 49 Avenue du Chesnay in Vaucresson of 1935 there are no more curves in plan than in the Mandrot house, but segmental concrete vaults cover the rectangular bays of which the plan is made up. Moreover, as if to underline Le Corbusier’s return towards nature after his earlier devotion to the abstract and the mechanistic, grass grows over their crowns to provide insulation. The exposed frame of the concrete structure, where not filled with glass brick, has panels of coursed rubble.

Le Corbusier’s projects of the thirties often included new ideas that others exploited even before he was able to do so himself in executed work. For example, the Ministry of Education and Public Health in Rio de Janeiro, on which he was a consultant only, designed in 1937 and completed in 1942 by Lúcio Costa (b. 1902), Oscar Niemeyer (b. 1907), and a group of others, the great building which opened so brilliantly the story of the new architecture in Brazil (Plate 171), included on the west front the projecting sun-breaks he had first proposed in 1933 for certain tall buildings intended to be erected in Algiers. Such sun-breaks soon became characteristic of mid-century architecture in all countries where the sun’s heat and glare offered a major problem—in Asia and Africa as much as in South America. By this device the all-glass wall, favourite large-scale theme of the new architecture since Mies’s early skyscraper projects, received a much-needed functional correction. As often before, a real (or supposed) practical need encouraged the satisfaction of overt or covert aesthetic aspirations; for sun-breaks very much enhance the three-dimensional interest of large façades, substituting for the slick planar effects characteristic of the twenties a more articulated sort of surface treatment related to, but independent of, the expression of skeleton structure. Sun-breaks even came to be used where they are hardly needed, quite as has been the case with various other clichés of modern architecture.

Since the war three major works of Le Corbusier, in the estimation of many critics his masterpieces, have carried much further the sculptural tendencies of his architecture of the thirties. One of these, the block of flats called the Unité d’Habitation,[501] far out the Boulevard Michelet in Marseilles, which was first projected in 1946 and finally completed in 1952, has various other points of interest, however. The Unité realizes on a large scale Le Corbusier’s ideas for the mass-dwelling, providing a single tall slab large enough to house a complete community and including, half-way up, a storey intended to be entirely occupied by shops, as well as other communal facilities on the roof (Plate #166:pl166). An ingenious section allows two-storey living-rooms for all the flats and also permits the use of a skip-stop lift system (Figure 51). The framework in front of the walls provides sun protection for the tall living-room windows and also shallow balconies for each flat both front and back.

Like the Swiss Hostel, the Unité is carried on central supports arranged in a double row. These are much more massively sculptural than the earlier ones in Paris, and almost anthropomorphically expressive of weight-bearing. All the poured concrete surfaces are left rough as they came from the forms, and the prefabricated members of the outer sun-break system have an exposed pebble aggregate. Everything is bold and masculine, even coarse, indicating a complete turnabout in Le Corbusier’s understanding of the essential ‘nature’—itself a rather Wrightian concept—of concrete. On the roof an abstract landscape of sculptural forms plays counterpoint to the superb backdrop of mountains. One cannot help remembering the roof of Gaudí’s Casa Milá in Barcelona (Plate 137A); there are even some glazed tiles set in the concrete to provide notes of ‘permanent polychrome’. Yet the window in the entrance-hall at the base of the slab is quite Neoplasticist in the pattern of its subdivisions and the use of coloured glass; while painted colour of the boldest sort, by no means restricted to the primaries, is used on the sides of the sun-breaks, though not on any of the outer surfaces. Thus has Le Corbusier’s later architecture been enriched by a sort of eclecticism quite remote from his Purist aesthetic of the twenties.

[Illustration:

Figure 51. Le Corbusier: Marseilles, Unité d’Habitation, 1946-52, section of three storeys ]

At Chandigarh in India, where Le Corbusier had the general responsibility for planning the entire new capital of the State of Punjab and of building the principal public monuments, only one or two were by the mid fifties finished; the rest of the city was the work of other architects, principally Pierre Jeanneret and the English firm of Maxwell Fry and his wife Jane Drew. The High Courts of Justice,[502] built by Le Corbusier in 1952-6, are even more sculptural than the Unité at Marseilles. A continuous umbrella-like shell-vault of concrete rises high above the roofs of the court-rooms to allow the free passage of air. Supporting this are great rounded piers that merge into the concave surfaces over them, almost like the structural elements of the Casa Milá, but here of monumental scale. On the west side deep box-crates, with brilliant painted colours on their soffits like those on the sun-breaks of the Unité, keep the sun off the glazed walls of the court-rooms and provide that three-dimensional play first exploited on the Ministry in Rio.

The long slab of the Secretariat at Chandigarh, also of 1952-6, with its very varied pattern of sun-breaks, is less novel than the High Courts; but other work of the mid fifties at Ahmedabad should not be ignored (see Chapter 25). However, Le Corbusier’s most extraordinary late building is in France, not India, and therefore considerably more accessible. Architects and laymen alike have been consistently impressed by the intense emotionalism of his church of Notre-Dame-du-Haut at Ronchamp, Hte-Saône,[503] built in 1950-5. Whether this church will ever have as much influence as the Unité has already had remains debatable because of its very special character. But it certainly made even more evident than the High Courts the fact that Le Corbusier in the fifties was moving in almost the opposite direction from that in which he led in the twenties.

In an exaggerated phrase Le Corbusier described his early houses as _machines à habiter_; but Notre-Dame-du-Haut is more like an enormous piece of sculpture than a ‘machine for praying-in’ (Plate 167). He who once drove architecture towards the mechanistic, the precise, and the volumetric, now provides the exemplar of a new mode so plastic as almost to be naturalistic in the way of Gaudí’s blocks of flats of fifty years earlier. The walls and roof are rough, indeed almost brutal, in finish, and so massive and solid that the interior of the church at certain times of the day seems positively ill-lit by the tiny deep-sunk windows that irregularly penetrate the side walls. In place of an aesthetic expression emulating the impersonal results of engineers’ calculations, there is here a freehand quality comparable to the spontaneity of the sculptor. Moreover, where the overtones of his characteristic buildings of the twenties were wholly of the present, this arouses deep prehistoric atavisms—and quite intentionally. Whether the High Courts at Chandigarh and the church at Ronchamp evidence a deep split in modern architecture or represent rather a major turning point is still far from clear. Only a few have yet succeeded in following with any distinction the line of development they appear to open (see Chapter 25 and Epilogue).

The later work of the German leaders arouses no such difficult critical problems as does Le Corbusier’s; yet it has also ranged sometimes in directions not altogether to be expected from their best-known work of the twenties. Their careers, moreover, suffered a harsher break because of the political tribulations of their homeland than Le Corbusier suffered from the economic tribulations of France. In 1930 Mies became Director of the Bauhaus, remaining until it was closed by Hitler in 1933. Although he won a competition for the Reichsbank in Berlin as late as that year, he was allowed to do no work under the Nazis, and so he settled in the United States in 1938 after a preliminary visit the previous year.

As has been noted, Mendelsohn and Gropius, on leaving Germany in 1933, settled first in England, and both did significant work there—if not especially significant for their own careers, certainly so for the early stage of modern architecture in England. With his English partner Maxwell Fry, Gropius was responsible in 1935-7 for the Impington Village College in Cambridgeshire; this set a new pace for school design in England in the post-war years, perhaps the best in the world. Mendelsohn, with Chermayeff, built in 1934-5 the De La Warr Pavilion at Bexhill on the Sussex coast. In the main this is a rather conventional example of the new architecture; but it has a semicircular glazed stair-tower that recalls the more lyrical quality of his best earlier work such as the Schocken department stores.

From England Mendelsohn moved on to Israel, where a large Government Hospital by him at Haifa and the Medical Centre of the Hadassah University in Jerusalem on Mount Scopus, both of 1936-8, show a most skilful adaptation of the international European canons to a hotter climate and a different cultural tradition, somewhat as is the case with the Ministry at Rio. Only with the onset of the war in 1941 did Mendelsohn settle in America. There his Maimonides Hospital in San Francisco of 1946-50 and synagogues and Jewish community centres in Cleveland (1946-52), St Louis (1946-50), Grand Rapids (1948-52), and St Paul (1950-4) continued to illustrate his very personal command of the commonly accepted elements of the new architecture, with the inclusion here and there of anomalous features that seem to belong to a much earlier period of his career.

Gropius proceeded directly from England to America in 1937, having been called by Dean Joseph Hudnut of the Graduate School of Design to be Professor of Architecture at Harvard University. He became Chairman of the Architecture Department the following year, which position he retained until 1953. As has already been said, his major contribution to architecture in America has been as an educator. However, he built, in partnership with Breuer, whom he had brought to Harvard, several houses, including his own at Lincoln, Mass., and also a housing development at New Kensington, Penna., in the years 1938-41. These are, on the whole, no more successful than much of his work of the late twenties in Germany, despite an intelligent effort to adapt a European mode to American building methods, particularly as regards the use of wood, both structurally and for sheathing. This turning away, on Gropius’s part, from ferro-concrete and rendered surfaces is parallel to Le Corbusier’s somewhat earlier reversion to the use of local and traditional materials. The houses that Breuer designed after he parted from Gropius have considerably more intrinsic interest; as is perhaps natural in the work of a younger man, they show a more integral adjustment to the characteristic living habits and building methods of the New World. Two large-scale commissions, for the Unesco Building[504] in Paris (now nearly finished) and for the Bijenkorf Store in Rotterdam (1955-7), not to speak of the U.S. Embassy at The Hague, have brought him back to the European scene, but as an American rather than a Hungarian or German architect.

Gropius’s principal American work was all done after the war. It included by the mid fifties two schools at Attleborough, Mass., one of 1948 and one of 1954, and the Graduate Centre of Harvard University in Cambridge, Mass., of 1949-50. These were all three designed—as also the already-mentioned Athens Embassy, which is not yet completed—in association with the firm known as TAC (The Architects’ Collaborative), consisting of a group of younger architects, all but one educated at Yale University, formed in 1946. In the double quadrangle of buildings at Harvard, forming in itself almost a complete small college, the architecture of the twenties lived on with little change. Light-coloured brick replaced stucco for the walls, however, and there is a certain rather inhibited use of curves in plan and of angular relationships in detail reflecting ideas that had entered the new architecture only in the thirties. The Attleborough schools are less pretentious and altogether more successful, improving upon Gropius and Fry’s Impington College of the thirties in England in various ways. After his retirement as professor, Gropius and TAC became increasingly active, and he continued to present his well-known architectural doctrines in lectures, articles, and books.[505]

Coming to the United States a year later than Gropius, Mies also found his greatest opportunity there, and almost at once. In 1939 he was commissioned to design the entire new group of buildings for the Illinois Institute of Technology, which was moving to the south side of Chicago. In this scheme, which is of urbanistic scale and extent, a classic, indeed an almost academic, order prevails throughout (Figure 52). The buildings that he was able to execute, two during the war in 1942-4, many more after 1945, have a comparably classic serenity. But they also express with relentless logic the character of their predominantly steel-skeleton construction. In them Mies almost revived architectural detail by the precision and the elaboration of his handling of the elements of metal structure. As at Gropius’s Graduate Centre, light-coloured brick replaces stucco for the solid wall panels. The severe patterns of the black-painted metalwork are organized with something of the purity of Mondrian’s canvases of the twenties yet with a dominating symmetry. This is true also of the interior planning of the individual buildings. However, the latest, Crown Hall, housing the architectural school, completed in 1956, is unsubdivided on the principal floor, and thus represents the most extreme statement of his later ideals, both structurally and in its planning.

[Illustration:

Figure 52. Ludwig Mies van der Rohe: Chicago, Illinois Institute of Technology, 1939-41, general plan ]

Mies also built houses and several tall blocks of flats in and near Chicago and, with Philip Johnson (b. 1906), a New York skyscraper at 375 Park Avenue for the Seagram Company in 1956-8 (Plate 192). His completely glazed Farnsworth house near Plano, Ill., designed in 1946 and built in 1950,[506] is a cage of white-painted welded steel raised above the river valley in which it is set and walled partly with great sheets of plate glass, partly with metal screening. The floor is a continuous plane of travertine from which broad travertine steps descend to an open travertine terrace. Planned about a central core in which are placed the fireplace, the bathrooms, and the heater, the interior space is completely unified, the different functional areas being separated only by cupboards that do not rise to the ceiling (Figure 53). Even more than Crown Hall, this house represents the purest and most extreme statement of aesthetic purpose in one particular direction that the new architecture has yet produced—a direction which is, of course, in total opposition to the increasingly complex plastic effects sought in these same years by Le Corbusier. It is, nevertheless, quite as remote from the stucco boxes characteristic of the twenties and even more remote from Mies’s own brick houses of that period.

A similarly ascetic luxury is also evident in Mies’s blocks of flats at 845-860 Lake Shore Drive in Chicago of 1949-51 (Plate 170). There he seemed to have arrived, not imitatively but by force of parallel logic, at something very close to the skyscrapers that Sullivan designed in the nineties (Plate 119). Mies’s structural piers, carried down to the ground as free-standing elements just as they are below the Farnsworth house, give the dominant bay rhythm, their structural steelwork being sheathed here first in protective concrete and then in black-painted metal. Between the piers continuous I-shaped beams along the mullion lines stiffen the wall screens which are otherwise entirely of glass held in bright aluminium frames; they also provide a subsidiary rhythm, quite as Sullivan’s mullions sometimes did in the eighties and nineties.

[Illustration:

Figure 53. Ludwig Mies van der Rohe: Plano, Ill., Dr Edith Farnsworth House, 1950, plan ]

Identical in shape, rectangular slabs both, the two blocks were set close together and at right angles to one another. This placing gave a minimum of overlap as regards the lake view and a minimum of overlook as regards the privacy of the apartments. The relationship also creates from these very simple shapes a notable variety of effects in perspective. The visual interest is enhanced especially by the fact that the projecting I-beams, when seen at a sharp angle, give the illusion that one wall of each block is solid; the other wall, being seen head on or nearly so, appears completely open between the structural piers and the mullions. Four more nearly identical apartment blocks[507] have risen in Chicago from Mies’s designs since, the Esplanade Apartments beside the first two towers, and two farther to the north, not to speak of those in Detroit and Newark.

After his arrival in America Mies was not merely for fifteen years the architect of the Illinois Institute of Technology’s buildings, he soon became head of its Department of Architecture also, a post he retained until he retired in 1955. Less articulate than Gropius and occupying a less important academic post, Mies’s influence specifically as an educator has been considerably less. On the other hand, the general influence of his work in America in the late forties and fifties has been far greater. The ‘Miesian’ became almost a sub-school of the new architecture not only in the United States but in several other countries: to Mies not only younger men but also many established practitioners owed the specific direction of much of their post-war work (see Chapter 25).

Just before the Second World War broke out Oud, in 1938, recovered his health sufficiently to undertake a large commission, the Shell Building in The Hague, completed in the course of the next four years. In Holland there had been in the thirties a strong reaction against the new architecture led by M. J. Granpré-Molière (b. 1883) and the graduates of his school at Delft. Granpré-Molière urged a return, if not to the outright ‘traditional’, at least to a semi-traditionalism that was not without some similarity to what Hitler was sponsoring in Germany. In response to this challenge Oud set out to show how the new architecture, still considered by many in Holland to be too stark and mechanistic, could be humanized. To return from stucco to brick, in this case a thin glazed white brick such as Dudok was using at this same time with great success on his quite conventionally ‘International Style’ Erasmus Huis office building in the Coolsingel in Rotterdam,[508] was merely to emulate the rejection of stucco in this decade by the French and German leaders in favour of more permanent, if also more traditional, walling materials, such as marble, rubble, brick, and even wood. But Oud’s attempt to revive ornament and the elaborate symmetry and near-academic complications of his over-all design of the Shell Building had little appeal outside Holland. In the small Esveha office building of 1952 near the railway station in Rotterdam and the much larger Vrijzinnige Christelijk Lyceum at 131 Goudsbloemlaan in The Hague of 1953-6 Oud returned to something much closer to the norms of the new architecture elsewhere. But the day of his great international influence has long been over despite the belated prestige which is still his in Holland.[509]

Like several of the preceding chapters dealing with the architects of the first modern generation, this has brought some aspects of our story down nearly to the present. In so doing, the specifically modern architecture of the twentieth century has been largely accounted for; the picture will be rounded out later by offering a synoptic view of the international scene at the mid century (see Chapter 25 and Epilogue). But first it is necessary to discuss the architecture that was _not_ modern which was produced in the first four decades of this century. Historicism,[510] that is reminiscence of past styles, endemic throughout the nineteenth century, lived on. It is considered polite to call such architecture ‘traditional’, over-favourably weighted rather than accurate though the term may be. Clearly a traditional architecture that produced a ‘Gothic’ skyscraper like Cass Gilbert’s Woolworth Building (Plate 178) or vast ‘Classical’ railway stations like the two in New York (Plate 177B) was not unduly restricted by revivalistic canons. Clearly also this sort of architecture cannot be ignored historically, since it produced some of the largest, most prominent, and most carefully studied buildings and groups of buildings of the first third of this century. Moreover, in many countries traditionalism gave way to modern design only after the Second World War; while the authoritarian regimes of Europe in varying degree returned to its sanctions in the thirties, just as it was generally losing ground elsewhere in the western world.

There were few if any great leaders among twentieth-century traditional architects; certainly hardly more than one or two approached the calibre or the individual significance of the men whose work Part Three of this book has largely dealt with up to this point. But a conspectus can be provided, with typical examples of the best work in several countries, and some indication offered of the character of the production in other countries where the individual architects were less colourful, the monuments less notable, and the general level of quality less high.

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## CHAPTER 24

ARCHITECTURE CALLED TRADITIONAL IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY

THROUGH at least the first three decades of the twentieth century most architects of the western world would have scorned the appellation ‘modern’ or, if they accepted it, would have defined the term very differently from the way it has been understood in the immediately preceding chapters. For twentieth-century architecture that continued the historicism[511] of the nineteenth century the usual name in English is ‘traditional’. This term reflects a fond presumption that such architecture derives its sanctions from the traditions of the further past, although in fact its only real tradition is that of the preceding hundred years. Whatever one calls it, this traditional architecture includes the majority of buildings designed before 1930 in most countries of the western world and a considerable, if very rapidly decreasing, proportion of those erected since.

Statements of this sort are not very relevant when they concern the arts. In the case of every revolutionary change in architecture the same situation has obtained while the old slowly gave way to the new. Since the modern revolution may well be of the scale of the Renaissance, the student of architectural history should recall that from the early crystallization of the new Italian mode—and at first it was no more than a minor regional mode—in Florence around 1420 to the general acceptance of a new international style throughout Europe some two hundred years passed. The Baroque, in succeeding the Renaissance, came to international dominion only by gradual stages and eventually died out, not all at once around 1750, but gradually over the next half century.

Despite prolific production and the quite remarkable things that were occasionally achieved when historicism came to uneasy terms with new technical means—as had already happened not infrequently in the nineteenth century—the traditional architecture of the twentieth century is primarily an instance of survival; and cultural survivals are among the most difficult problems with which history has to deal. Their sluggish life, sunk in inertia and conservatism, is very different from the vitality of new developments. Yet survivals are tough and resilient, tending always to maintain themselves by their very uneventfulness. Static, not to say smug, assurance is their greatest strength; their greatest danger is that boredom resulting from excessive familiarity which they eventually induce.

Survivals do not generally rouse the interest of posterity. The Gothic of fifteenth-century Italy or that of seventeenth-century England has not received from historians the attention of the rising forces in the architecture of those periods. Somewhat unfairly, late and anachronistic achievements, if admired at all, are likely to be credited to the previous age. In America, for example, Grecian plantation houses built as late as the 1850s are frequently called ‘Southern Colonial’. We are too well aware today, however, that the work of the traditional architects of the last fifty or sixty years is of this century, and not of the previous one, to permit that kind of confusion. The historian _must_ attempt to give some sort of account of things like the Stockholm City Hall (Plate 174A and B) and the Woolworth Building (Plate 178). But the story is not an easy one to tell because it seemed—still at least in the mid twentieth century—to lack plot. The rise of modern architecture, on the other hand, offers material for a dramatic narrative, for it follows the pattern of the ‘success-story’, just as does that of the Gothic in twelfth-century France or the beginnings of the Renaissance in fifteenth-century Italy.

In some areas of the world a meaningful succession of stages can be discerned in the late period of historicism. Because of the differential lags in various parts of the western world, however, it is difficult to find a scheme of organization that is at all generally applicable. All the same, those lags usually mean that certain countries were going through phases of architectural development in the early twentieth century that more advanced areas had left behind before 1900. Since those phases have been discussed in Part Two, it is unnecessary to detail here the peripheral and anachronistic ‘repeats’ of familiar late nineteenth-century episodes in the present century.

Without attempting to round out the picture with the citation of multiple examples, one may at this point suggest some of the aspects, parallel and successive, of twentieth-century historicism. There was, for example, a characteristic continuation of that reaction against the boldness and coarseness of the architecture of the third quarter of the nineteenth century which is recognizable in most countries, and

## particularly perhaps in America and England from the eighties; hence the

general critical emphasis of the period on ‘restraint’ and on the ‘tasteful’. Academically designed buildings of the 1920s were often still intended to realize aspirations that had been novel some forty years earlier; rarely, however, did they do so with a vitality comparable to that of later nineteenth-century work. So also Gothic of the early twentieth century produced by such American architects as Ralph Adams Cram or James Gamble Rogers hardly differs in its standards from what the English Bodley initiated around 1870.

We have already seen in much of the work of Perret and Behrens a special kind of continuation of the Classical tradition in the twentieth century. This shades down through various degrees and kinds of simplification as represented in the personal modes of such architects as Asplund in Sweden or Marcello Piacentini in Italy to the maintenance of a Classical revivalism as absolute as that of 1800 in white marble temples like Henry Bacon’s Lincoln Memorial in Washington (Plate 180).

The medievalizing currents of the nineteenth century link up with many aspects of the advanced architecture of the early twentieth century. This aftermath, often vital and creative in the fields of theory and of craftsmanship with architects as different as the English Voysey and the Spanish Gaudí, likewise shades down through various levels of decreasing stylization to a literal revivalism that is still in the Victorian tradition, but more in line with that tradition’s early or Puginian phase or its latest Bodleian phase than with the Butterfieldian phase of the 1850s and 1860s.

Both on the Classical and on the Gothic side of the fence, however, there have been a few twentieth-century traditional architects whose personal stylization of borrowed forms was almost as extreme as that of the High Victorians. In their work, intense individualism and limited respect for the canons of ‘taste’ and ‘restraint’ offer real points of contact with the brashness of such modern architects of the first generation as Wright and de Klerk. This is in contrast to the other line of traditionalist integrity in the handling of materials that was solidly based on Gothic Revival standards of revived hand-craftsmanship, one of the truly positive values contributed to the next generation by such architects as Richardson in America and Webb in England. The two lines could also in some milieus combine to produce, particularly in Scandinavia, some of the most impressive works of the early twentieth century. Such an outline, blurred and overlapping in its rubrics, can do little more than suggest some of the principal later channels of the architectural currents which were carried over from the nineteenth century into the early decades of the twentieth century.

There is still hardly a country in the world where buildings of traditional design are not being erected; but whatever vitality twentieth-century traditional architecture retained as late as the second and even the third decade of the century had departed by the fourth. Post-mortems on traditional architecture have been many—and often premature. The causes of death are still disputable, but the fact of dissolution is by now generally accepted. Yet the last years of traditional architecture were not completely senile. However much the youthful vitality of the newer architecture attracts sympathy and attention, as late as 1930 its impact on building production was in most countries a very limited one. It is fortunate, therefore, that not all the traditional architecture of the years 1900-30 need be dismissed with scorn, even if the standards by which it must be judged remain those of the nineteenth rather than of the twentieth century.

The nineteenth century ended, as we have seen earlier, with a surge of innovation (see Chapters 14, 15, and 16). Looking forward from the late nineties, a prophet might well have assumed that a new architecture would surely arise just beyond the turn of the century; yet within a few years a general reaction set in which took somewhat different forms in various parts of the western world. As has already been noted, there were almost everywhere strong links with the earlier Academic Reaction of the eighties against the bold and brash ‘high styles’ of the mid century; indeed, it may be said that the traditional architecture of the new century was in general both a continuance and a resurgence of that reaction. In most European countries, although not in England and America, the academic architecture of the late nineteenth century had represented little more than a resurgence or a continuance of certain aspects of decadent Romantic Classicism. Seeking a loftier pedigree, however, conservative architects often claimed that they were returning to traditions that had existed down to less than a century before their own day, quite as various reformers from Pugin to Voysey claimed they were renewing a link with one or another earlier period.

Relatively valid as this might still have been for certain aspects of the Queen Anne in England and the Colonial Revival in America, or for the parallel return to eighteenth-century modes in various Continental countries towards the end of the century, this theory had already run into serious difficulties long before 1900. A church might hope to be plausibly Gothic, but a railway station could only be Victorian Gothic; a skyscraper could not even be as Gothic as that. Moreover, the tide of eclecticism that had been rising since the mid eighteenth century was not turned back; for both the reaction of the 1880s and the later reaction of the early 1900s represented chiefly a rejection of earlier nineteenth-century innovations, especially of novel sorts of detail, rather than positive programmes of exclusive revival.

It is possible, at least for individual countries, to make statements concerning what occurred in the field of traditional design between the 1890s and the 1930s that are not wholly without significance. Of Holland it may be said, negatively, that no reaction of consequence towards the traditional occurred before the mid thirties. In Germany the boundary line between what was traditional and what was modern was always fairly vague; yet evidence of a return to stylistic reminiscence after the earliest years of the century is to be found even in the work of leaders of the first generation of modern architects such as Olbrich and Behrens (see Chapter 20). Farther to the North in Denmark and Sweden, the Copenhagen Town Hall of 1892-1902 (Plate 173A) by Martin Nyrop (1849-1923) and the contemporary post offices and fire stations in Stockholm and Malmö by Ferdinand Boberg (1860-1940) resemble Berlage’s Exchange in Amsterdam in their haunting parallelism to the Richardsonian of the eighties in America and even, to some extent, to the Shavian of the seventies in England. It is true that Absalons Gaard, built in 1901-2 by Vilhelm Fischer (1868-1914) in the square in front of Nyrop’s Town Hall, and even more notably the nearby Palace Hotel of 1907-10 by Anton Rosen (1859-1928), developed the freer implications of Nyrop’s manner with an almost Dutch verve. But more characteristically there followed in Scandinavia from about 1900, as elsewhere rather earlier, a programme of tasteful emulation of local versions of the Baroque and then, from shortly after 1910 in Denmark and a decade later in Sweden, an even more programmatic revival of Romantic Classicism.

In the Scandinavian development from 1890 to 1930 there is therefore a sort of ‘plot’ or recognizable sequence of phases despite their overlappings. What has been called ‘National Romanticism’, rooted in the cultural climate of the eighties, had a briefer span in Denmark than in Sweden. Nyrop’s Town Hall, begun in 1892, although in fact hardly more traditional than Berlage’s Amsterdam Exchange, introduced the mode, and the Stockholm Town Hall (Plate 174A and B) by Ragnar Östberg (1866-1945), completed thirty years later, brought it to a close. But its dominion in Denmark was never exclusive. Although the Custom House of 1897 at Aarhus by Hack Kampmann (1856-1920) with its picturesque high roofs and corner towers belongs to the mode, his Aarhus Theatre of 1898-1900 and his City Library there of 1898-1902 do not. Externally, the theatre is in the main of Early Renaissance design, although with considerable eclecticism in the detail; on the other hand, the library is even less traditional than Nyrop’s Town Hall. Both, moreover, have extremely rich plaster decoration inside that may not improperly be called Art Nouveau.

Wahlman’s Engelbrekt Church of 1904-14 in Stockholm, mentioned earlier as an exception to the general dominance of tradition in Scandinavia in these decades, and the Grundvig Church in Copenhagen (Plate 175B) by P. W. Jensen Klint (1853-1930), originally designed in 1913 and completed finally in 1926, are both closely related to the earlier National Romanticism of the eighties and nineties. By the time the latter was designed, however, this phase had for some years been superseded by a sort of Neo-Baroque still also very nationalistic in its choice of precedents and very romantic in their handling. Sometimes, however, this mode approached eighteenth-century revivalism of the sort that flourished in England and America. For example, the Marselisberg Slot, built by Kampmann for the Danish Crown Prince at Aarhus in 1899-1902, is the precise Danish equivalent of the best Neo-Georgian houses of the period in England and America.

Monuments such as the Masthugg Church (Plate 175A) of 1910-14 in Göteborg by Sigfrid Ericson (b. 1874) or the Högalid Church of 1916-23 in Stockholm by Ivar Tengbom (b. 1878) are hardly recognizable as Neo-Baroque to non-Swedish eyes, for they are composed with a sense of visual drama quite equal to Wahlman’s and very stylized in all their detailing. Ericson’s, in particular, has much in common with the American Shingle Style, although that was rarely used for churches and never for big ones of stone or brick construction.

In much secular Swedish work in the Neo-Baroque mode, such as the very typical ASEA Building of 1916-19 in Västeros by Erik Hahr (1869-1944), bold asymmetrical massing and onion-domed towers reflect the romanticism of the churches and also recall early stages of the revived Queen Anne in England in the seventies. Danish taste in the second decade of the century was much more severe than Swedish, as in fact it had always been, and the characteristic low-cost housing blocks in Copenhagen of this period, such as those of 1914 in the Amagertorv by Hansen & Hygom, are, so to say, only Neo-Baroque round the edges.

For the 1920s, however, the most significant phase was the third, that is the return to Romantic Classicism. This was initiated in Denmark by Carl Petersen (1874-1923) in his Faaborg Museum designed in 1912, and reached its climax immediately after the First World War. In Sweden the parallel phase began a bit later. By the time such men as Fisker in Denmark, Asplund in Sweden, and Aalto in Finland became ‘converts’ to the International Style in the late twenties, Scandinavian traditionalism had become almost as purged of stylistic detail as the architecture of Tony Garnier, or even that of Adolf Loos, had been for a generation.

On the whole the Danes and the Swedes produced the most lively and distinguished traditional architecture of the early decades of the century. Medievalizing churches in Scandinavia, such as the just-mentioned Grundvig Church in Copenhagen, where Jensen Klint followed Baltic modes that seemed strange and even Expressionist to foreign eyes, or Tengbom’s Högalid Church in Stockholm, superbly sited and actually much more Baroque than Gothic in its detail, make the respectable Neo-Perpendicular and Neo-Georgian exercises of contemporary Anglo-Saxon architects look timid and unimaginative. In both cases it is the stylization of proportion—the tremendous verticality—that makes them striking and full of a sort of vitality, at once nervous and lusty, which is comparable to that of the best High Victorian Gothic churches.

The finest medievalizing work is undoubtedly Östberg’s Stockholm Town Hall of 1909-23.[512] This is an exceedingly eclectic combination of elements adapted from various periods both of the Swedish and the general European past. Superbly set at the water’s edge, it is sumptuously decorated inside and out with products of craftsmanship that are of a very high order of competence (Plate 174A and B). Despite his eclecticism, Östberg succeeded in imposing on all his disparate elements a high degree of personal stylization at the same time that he exploited the situation with marvellous dramatic effect. There is also a witty allusiveness suggesting the art of the theatre and the exotic fantasies of the late eighteenth century. The Stockholm Town Hall provides a sort of pageant-setting for the ceremonial life of the city, recalling the splendours of town-hall architecture of many epochs of the past, even though it lacks the straightforwardness and the integrity of Nyrop’s earlier Town Hall in Copenhagen.

The outside world had hardly had time to apprehend such new Scandinavian building in the years following the First World War before it became evident that architecture in these countries, hitherto on the whole in stylistic retard of developments elsewhere by almost a generation, had taken a surprisingly sharp turn. Petersen’s museum at Faaborg followed the local Romantic Classical models of C. F. Hansen far more literally than any of the contemporary admirers of Schinkel in Germany were doing. Brought to completion in 1916 during the First World War, it attracted very little foreign attention at the time it was built. But the Police Headquarters in Copenhagen by Kampmann, erected after the war in 1918-22, with its great colonnaded circular court, and the Øregaard School (Plate 176B) at 32 Gersonsvej in the Gentofte Kommune north of Copenhagen by Edward Thomsen (b. 1884) and G. B. Hagen (1873-1941) that followed in 1922-4 were at once noticed abroad. Both indeed are notable for their grandeur and for their simplicity, the latter realizing old Romantic Classical ideals with extraordinary success, the former coming closer to the academic work of McKim, Mead & White in America.

Still simpler, and not without a similar sort of understated grandeur surprising in such work, were the Danish low-cost housing blocks erected in the early twenties in succession to those of Hansen & Hygom. Those by Povl Baumann (b. 1878) in the Hans Tavsengade or the enormous Hornsbaekhus of 1923 by Kay Fisker (b. 1893), all in Copenhagen, are especially fine. The extreme precision, the elegant craftsmanship in brick, and the ascetic detailing of these blocks of flats, rivalling the contemporary ones by de Klerk and by Kramer in Amsterdam in quality but subscribing to a quite opposed aesthetic, are found also in many Danish private houses of the twenties built by Gotfred Tvede (1863-1947) and other architects both in the city and in the country.

Although Carl Westmann (1866-1936) in the Röhss Museum of Handicraft at Göteborg and Erik Lallerstedt (1864-1955) in the University of Architecture and Engineering at Stockholm approached the simplicity and fine craftsmanship in brick of the Danes, Swedish work of this period was in general richer and more robust, still reflecting the very eclectic sources of inspiration of Östberg’s Town Hall. However, in 1923 Neo-Classicism of a more attenuated and whimsical order than Petersen’s made a striking appearance in the buildings for the Göteborg Jubilee Exhibition. Of these the Congress Hall by Arvid Bjerke (b. 1880), with its serried clerestories carried on arched principals, was the boldest and least reminiscent. These Göteborg pavilions were very influential abroad in the mid and late twenties; detailing of Swedish inspiration then seemed to offer to traditional designers elsewhere a sort of Nordic spice with which to enliven the dead-level of the local eighteenth-century revivals.

Tengbom, deserting the romantic eclecticism and the emotional drama of his earlier Högalid Church, used a highly stylized, almost exposition-like, Neo-Classic mode for his Stockholm Concert Hall of 1920-6. However, the climax in Sweden—if not, indeed, the climax as regards all Scandinavia—came with Asplund’s Central Library in Stockholm, begun in 1921 and much simplified and refined as construction proceeded through the mid twenties. Rejecting the frivolous decorative detail of his Skandia Cinema of 1922-3, Asplund rivalled the Danes in reducing architecture to geometrical simplicity (Plate 176A). Thus he might almost seem to have passed beyond C. F. Hansen and Schinkel, the Scandinavian idols of the day, to draw the inspiration for his plain cylinder rising out of a cube directly from Ledoux or Boullée (Plate 2A); while at the base he ran a continuous band of windows derived from the newest architecture of these years in France, Germany, and Holland. This juxtaposition in the same edifice of Ledoux and Le Corbusier, so to put it, is rather awkward; but it is highly symptomatic of the very slight step that the Scandinavians had still to take in the late twenties when they gave up revived Romantic Classicism—already pared down to basic geometry in this library and in much Danish housing—to become outright converts to the International Style.

Although Sweden and Denmark produced no modern architect of the first generation of such individual distinction as the Finnish Saarinen, and must in any case be considered to have started out around 1900 from a position somewhat in retard of the French and the Germans, their early twentieth-century architecture largely avoided the stasis of traditionalism elsewhere, moving through overlapping but discrete phases to an early and sympathetic acceptance of the new international architecture of the twenties even before that decade was over. So clear a picture is hard to discern in most other countries.

In the United States the pattern of development between the 1890s and the 1930s, in so far as one can make out any pattern at all, was quite different; nor was there in America, in the way of England in the twenties, any Swedish influence of consequence. Movements roughly equivalent to the Scandinavian National Romanticism of 1900, the Richardsonian Romanesque and the Shingle Style, had flourished in the eighties and come to an end by 1900. The Academic Reaction that early succeeded them swept on, however, for some forty years. Despite the ruling eclecticism of taste that permitted an archaeological sort of revived Gothic still to thrive as a mode for churches and educational institutions, the more widely favoured Classical, Renaissance, and Georgian stylisms had all been initiated by McKim, Mead & White in the eighties and early nineties. The quality of their work began to decline[513] almost as soon as their professional primacy became assured; yet their best buildings of the first decade of the new century undoubtedly remain among the most competent, if unexciting, examples of traditional architecture then produced anywhere. Americans, not Frenchmen, were in these decades the worthiest products of the École des Beaux-Arts, and thus heirs of the strongest academic tradition in the world.

Whether McKim, Mead & White’s models be Renaissance, as in the University Club in New York (Plate 179) completed in 1900, the series of Branch Public Libraries there that were built over the next dozen years, and the Tiffany Building finished in 1906; or Classical, as in the Knickerbocker Trust in New York and the Bank of Montreal in Montreal, both completed in 1904, the very similar Girard Trust in Philadelphia of 1908, and the vast Pennsylvania Station in New York of 1906-10, this New York firm was clearly one of the truest successors to the nineteenth-century academic heritage that so many of the French were frittering away at the opening of the new century in a half-hearted flirtation with the Art Nouveau.

The Gare d’Orsay in Paris of 1898-1900 (Plate 183A) by V.-A.-F. Laloux (1856-1937) is no more to be compared with the Americans’ station than his Hôtel de Ville at Tours of 1904-5 with their clubs and banks—his best work, closer to the tradition of Duquesney and Hittorff, was an earlier station, that at Tours of 1895-8. Yet Laloux was often considered the most accomplished French traditional architect of the period.[514] Moreover, the McKim, Mead & White repertory of stylistic modes was wide: much wider than that of the French, although Laloux did produce in Saint-Martin at Tours, completed in 1904, a domed basilica still in the line of the earlier French Romanesquoid churches, though not at all of the quality of Vaudremer’s Saint-Pierre-de-Montrouge of the sixties.

McKim, Mead & White exploited a vernacular Colonial Revival, as in the E. D. Morgan house of 1900 at Wheatley Hills, Long Island, as well as a more formal Neo-Georgian, at which several others, such as Delano & Aldrich[515] and Charles A. Platt (1861-1933), were quite as competent as they. But they could also shade their Classicism towards the Byzantine, as in the Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church in New York completed in 1906, or adapt it to industrial uses, as in the I.R.T. Power Station in New York of 1903. They could even extend it upward into skyscrapers, as in the New York Municipal Building completed in 1908, concentrating all their attention on the ground floor and the crowning feature while ignoring the many-storeyed shank between; or spread it thin over large apartment houses such as that they built in 1918 at 998 Fifth Avenue, one of the best examples of the apparently solid blocks that walled one side of that thoroughfare above 57th Street facing Central Park and soon turned Park Avenue from 46th to 96th Street into a man-made canyon. The one thing they and their contemporaries seemed to be unable to do was to make their architecture live, even with the derivative vitality of the Scandinavians. Frozen ideals of stylistic ‘correctness’ stifled such expression of individual personality as gives real character to the work of a Tengbom or a Kampmann even when it comes closest to theirs.

In popular estimation certain buildings that made use of Gothic rather than Classical, Renaissance, or Georgian forms had a higher reputation. Cass Gilbert’s already-mentioned Woolworth Building finished in 1913 (Plate 178) initiated a considerable range of Gothic skyscrapers, including Howells & Hood’s Chicago Tribune Tower of 1923-5, but it remains in the judgement of posterity the most notable example of this sort of applied medieval design. Despite the considerable acclaim it received when new, such an equally characteristic Romanesquoid example as the Shelton Hotel of 1929 by Arthur Loomis Harmon (b. 1901) rivals Gilbert’s no more in interest than in height. The New York Telephone Company Building, completed in 1926 by Ralph Walker (b. 1889) at the beginning of his career with the firm of McKenzie, Voorhees & Gmelin, is more original. Its fortress-like masses, somewhat frivolously relieved by ornamental touches borrowed from the Paris Exposition of 1925, and its isolated location at the Hudson River’s edge, ensure that its bold silhouette will long vie, for the visitor arriving from abroad, with the so much taller and richer silhouette of the Woolworth Building. Most of the other individual big buildings of the twenties in New York and other large American cities are no more than incidental elements in the man-made mountain ranges of their skylines.

Curiously enough the ‘correct’ Gothic churches of this period do not receive today as favourable a response as the large-scale medievalizing secular work that is necessarily so very unlike real work of the Middle Ages. Those of Ralph Adams Cram (1863-1942), then the most esteemed Gothic practitioner, are lifeless and even crude beside Bodley’s and Pearson’s in England from which they largely derive. His first church, All Saints’, Ashmont, outside Boston which was built in 1892 is by its early date the least anachronistic. Cram’s former partner Goodhue’s St. Vincent Ferrer in New York completed in 1916, a competent and well-scaled example of Late Gothic that is more Continental than English in character, is rather more successful than any of their joint work or that which Cram did later with his other partner Ferguson. Bertram Grosvenor Goodhue (1869-1924), responsible also, as has been noted, for the Spanish Colonial revival in California, moved on in the early twenties just before his death to an eclectic sort of semi-modernism best represented by his Nebraska State Capitol in Lincoln. This is vaguely Byzantinesque, yet towered instead of being domed in what had been the tradition for state capitals ever since Bulfinch’s in Boston. His contemporary Los Angeles Public Library is starker and more like a project by Tony Garnier.

There were other architects to match McKim, Mead & White directly at their own academic exercises: most notably John Russell Pope (1874-1937), with his Temple of Scottish Rite in Washington completed in 1916, a grandiose reconstruction of the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus; and Henry Bacon (1866-1924), with his Lincoln Memorial completed the following year (Plate 180). The latter is a peripteral Greek Doric temple of white marble with a high attic that might almost have been designed in Paris in the 1780s—no mean compliment. Equally French in spirit, but with no such evident prototypes, is the Grand Central Station in New York, built in 1903-13 by Reed & Stem and Warren & Wetmore.[516] More efficiently organized than the Pennsylvania Station, its concourse is one of the grandest spaces the early twentieth century ever enclosed (Plate 177B).

Compared to most work of these decades by French architects, all trained like the American leaders at the École des Beaux-Arts, the greater ‘correctness’ of the detailing of these buildings is notable. The boast of ‘good taste’ was not altogether a hollow one, although it is at best a negative rather than a positive criterion for architecture.

So extensive was American building production during the twenties that it is difficult to know how to epitomize it.[517] On the one hand, there are the later skyscrapers, essaying new stylistic garments as the older ones lost their piquancy. Even before the Romanesquoid of Harmon’s Shelton Hotel had come the massive simplicity of Walker’s Telephone Building. But for all the playing around with superficially novel decoration borrowed from the Paris Exposition of 1925 in the succeeding years, there was no basic renewal of form before next decade opened. Just after the crash of 1929 terminated the boom, the second skyscraper age came to a belated close with the erection in the early thirties of Shreve, Lamb & Harmon’s Empire State Building and the initiation of the Rockefeller Center project.[518] There a more urbanistic grouping, extending over a considerable area, replaced the earlier ideal of building single structures of ever greater height that had just reached its climax with the Empire State Building. This change in approach, recognized ever since as a turning point, was for a long time hardly at all followed up. However, the spaced skyscrapers of Pittsburgh’s rebuilt Golden Triangle and, since then, various projects of urban renewal for big and middle-sized cities from coast to coast are shifting the emphasis from individual structures to the wholesale reorganization of very large areas (see Chapter 25 and Epilogue).

In the terms of this chapter neither the Empire State Building nor Rockefeller Center are examples of traditional architecture, even if it is hardly proper to consider them ‘modern’ in the sense of the European architecture of their day. Although likewise no example of the new architecture as then understood in Europe like Howe & Lescaze’s Philadelphia Savings Fund Society Building of 1932 (Plate 169), such a clean-cut skyscraper as Hood’s vertically striped Daily News Building in New York marked with more distinction than its outsize rivals the end of traditional design in this field.

Almost as remarkable as the skyscrapers of the twenties in size and elaboration were the groups of new buildings in which so many academic institutions, both new and old, variously housed themselves. The mode is Classical at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, built by Welles Bosworth (b. 1869) in 1912-15 on the Charles River in Cambridge, Mass.; ‘Georgian-Colonial’ in the range of ‘Houses’ that Coolidge, Shepley, Bulfinch & Abbott[519] built in the twenties for Harvard, also along the Charles River in Cambridge; it is Gothic at Cram & Ferguson’s Graduate College at Princeton, N.J. (Plate 177A) completed in 1913, in the Harkness Quadrangle, designed in 1917, and other later buildings for Yale at New Haven, Conn., by James Gamble Rogers (1867-1947), and at the Men’s Campus by Horace Trumbauer (1869-1938) at Duke University in Durham, North Carolina; it is even, by exception, Byzantinoid at Cram’s Rice Institute at Houston, Texas, opened in 1912. The usual modes for such work were what was known as ‘Collegiate’ Gothic, based rather loosely on work at Oxford and Cambridge that was quite as likely to be nineteenth-century as medieval in date, and Neo-Georgian in an Anglo-American version, usually too grand to be plausibly Colonial yet too casually composed to be properly Anglo-Palladian. Curiously enough, the Gothic Cram’s Neo-Georgian Sweet Briar College in Virginia of 1901-6 is more successful than much of his own medievalizing work or than comparable work by those who specialized in eighteenth-century design.

The technical competence of American architects in this period was very great, the sums of money available almost unlimited, and the avowed standards of design only the vague ones of ‘taste’ and ‘correctness’, by this time little more than a schoolmasterish respect for precedent in detail, though rarely in over-all composition.[520] Far less than in Scandinavia is it possible to define the particular ways in which the period expressed itself, for express itself America in these decades undoubtedly did. Yet, when Americans of this period worked abroad, what they produced is readily distinguishable from the work of local traditionalists. The American Academy on the Gianicolo in Rome, built by McKim, Mead & White in 1913, has a certain chaste precision in its High Renaissance detailing no Italian could then have achieved even if he had wanted to. In London Helmle & Corbett’s[521] Bush House, rising between the Strand and Aldwych, has a clarity of form and a sense of urbanistic responsibility that few comparable buildings of its period designed by leading British architects display; up to a point, the same is true of Carrère & Hastings’s[522] Devonshire House in Piccadilly of 1924-6. The Ritz Hotel of 1906 across the street by the Anglo-French firm of Mewès & Davis,[523] both of them trained at the École des Beaux-Arts as was Thomas Hastings, is bolder in scale, less priggish, but it also lacks the suavity and finish of its neighbour. Bolder also, indeed too monumental for its size, is Barclays Bank of 1926 by W. Curtis Green (b. 1875), near by in Piccadilly across Arlington Street. Of more nearly comparable quality is Green’s earlier Westminster Bank of 1922-3 on the north side of Piccadilly.

Somewhere between the extreme professional competence of the traditional architects of America, a competence almost wholly anonymous in its results, and the intensely personal expression of the Scandinavians lies the pattern that the best traditional architecture, such as Green’s, followed in England in the early twentieth century. But before turning to that a good deal more should first be said concerning both the competence and the anonymity of American production, since that competence and even that anonymity came to be accepted throughout the western world as desirable[524] characteristics of modern architecture by a great many architects, at least in the mid century.

Partnerships were not unknown in the nineteenth century, although professional alliances between strong personalities rarely lasted for long. When the partner was not an equal the historian is often justified in writing, say, of G. G. Scott and forgetting Moffatt or, with rather less justification, only of Sullivan while ignoring Adler. But architectural firms that include three or more named partners, with still other members listed only on the letter-head; others such as D. H. Burnham _and Company_ and Albert Kahn _Incorporated_, or ‘partnerships’, such as McKim, Mead & White or Cram & Ferguson, which continued to function under the same name for decades after the death of the original partners like so many firms of lawyers: these are more or less peculiar to the twentieth century and first became common in the United States. Today, moreover, an architect of European background like Mies van der Rohe does not undertake large-scale operations in America, such as the group of buildings for the Illinois Institute of Technology or _a fortiori_ his tall blocks of flats in Chicago and the Seagram skyscraper in New York, without associating himself with such large local firms. Wright and Gropius solved the problem somewhat differently; but the Taliesin Fellowship and TAC provided them respectively with the relatively modest and idiosyncratic equivalents of the organization of the big Harrison & Abramowitz firm in New York or of one of the Skidmore, Owings & Merrill offices in Chicago, New York, San Francisco, and Portland, Oregon.

The development of the characteristic large-scale American architectural office seems to have begun in Chicago. Burnham, on the death of his designing partner Root in 1891, just after they had undertaken the primary responsibility for the general planning and building of the World’s Fair of 1893, had to set up an organization of which he was no more than the executive head. But the office of McKim, his closest associate in carrying out the Fair, was certainly already far advanced along a parallel road. There is a definite connexion here also with the rise of the skyscraper, for those very large commercial buildings already required a vast amount of uninspired draughting that could be efficiently undertaken only by a large force of assistants working in what came later to be derisively called ‘plan-factories’.

The same is even more true of industrial work. Here Albert Kahn took the lead around 1905 in developing a type of subdivision and flow of work in his office in Detroit comparable to the new methods of mass-production that his motor-car factories were specifically designed to facilitate. Such patterns are found at their extreme in the group[525] of firms that together produced Rockefeller Center, in the Harrison & Abramowitz office which is in effect their heir, and in the largely post-war expansion of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill. Abroad, more characteristically, such organizations have been built up in offices under a public authority such as those of the London and the Hertfordshire County Councils, the City Architects’ Offices in various German cities, or the Banco Obrero housing agency in Venezuela.

‘Plan-factories’ are undoubtedly conducive to speed and to a certain sort of competence in the execution of large projects, but it must be evident that the architecture they produce will necessarily be anonymous. In defining the character of their competence, moreover, one must be careful not to imply too much. Only such team-work, perhaps, can organize the logistics of building production in such a way that extensive and ramified ventures are carried rapidly to completion, a desideratum of the first order in a boom period for skyscrapers that must be finished quickly in order to begin repaying their enormous cost. Efficiency is of a different sort of consequence where large-scale building schemes of a more public and social nature are being undertaken, but none the less extremely important. Le Corbusier’s Unité at Marseilles, produced without an elaborate office organization, took some six years to build; as a result it was no longer ‘low-cost housing’ when it was finally completed.

Yet competence in the sections of a big office that deal with the plumbing, say, or the electrical system is no assurance that the quite different sort of competence required in the design department will be available. Moreover, a brilliant initial design may or may not survive intact the various modifications that other departments bring to it as the preparatory paper-work for the building moves through successive stages to ultimate execution. At best, even when a particular designer’s name is associated with a particular building, as is that of Gordon Bunshaft of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill with Lever House (Plate 189), his responsibility is of a very different order from Wright’s for the Price Tower-although not perhaps so different from Mies’s for the Seagram skyscraper.

The situation in England in the first third of the century was rather different from that in America despite a nineteenth-century inheritance which was in many aspects common to both countries. One architect, Sir Edwin Lutyens, had a personal capacity for invention along traditional lines superior to that of any American of his generation. This was not, however, of the order of individualistic intensity of an Östberg or a Jensen Klint, nor was he able, in the way of an Asplund or even a Hood, to accept around 1930 the discipline of the newer architecture of the day. Lutyens built no skyscrapers, nor did he develop the sort of office organization that made them possible in America. This was, however, occurring to some extent by the twenties and thirties in other big English offices, such as those of Sir John Burnet & Tait[526] and of Curtis Green.

All the same, it fell to Lutyens’s lot to build some of the biggest business structures erected anywhere outside America in these years, and his career culminated in the design and construction of an imperial capital such as came the way of no American. His competence was of a more nineteenth-century order than that of the Americans, and there was certainly nothing anonymous about his work. He was, moreover, still an inspiriting figure in an England where architecture, under the difficult economic conditions since the last war, tended to become anonymous without becoming especially competent, except for public housing and for schools (see Chapter 25).

Lutyens’s beginnings were very remote from the world of business and governmental buildings with which his career wound up (see Chapter 15). Very early houses, such as Ruckmans of 1894 at Oakwood Park or Sullingstead of 1896 at Hascombe, both in Surrey, followed directly in the line of Shaw’s Surrey manor-houses with their tile-hung walls, free and easy composition, and simple domesticity of tone. They are, indeed, superior to most of Shaw’s—the first of which, Glen Andred, was built almost thirty years earlier and the last about this time—because of Lutyens’s respect for Webb and the resultant superiority of his craftsmanship. In his finest early houses, such as Deanery Gardens at Sonning of 1901 (Plate 182B), he rivalled Voysey. He was already inclined, however, like Webb in many of his later houses, to use considerable stylistic detail, usually Neo-Georgian, in his interiors, and here and there on exteriors as well.

Perhaps the revolution—or counter-revolution—in his development represented by his Heathcote of 1906 at Ilkley in Yorkshire has been somewhat exaggerated. Yet the design of this, completely symmetrical and quite elaborately Palladian in detail, did represent as great a shift in approach, taken in one jump, as that from Shaw’s Glen Andred of the late sixties to his Chesters of the early nineties. It was, however, practically the same shift. Eclectic like almost all the traditional architects of his generation, Lutyens still occasionally remodelled medieval houses, but the main line of his development henceforth was certainly Neo-Georgian. Yet it was usually Neo-Georgian with an important difference from what had become by this time in England as in America a rather drearily codified mode. Nashdom at Taplow in Buckinghamshire, built in 1909, is a vast white-painted house, plain, regular, massive, and hardly at all archaeological. Yet this is so handsomely proportioned and so well built that one could well believe it to be the result of some generations-long process of accretion in the eighteenth century. Great Maytham in Kent of 1910 is Queen Anne, but not the Queen Anne of the 1870s. Here a great mansion of the early eighteenth century was re-created with such a plausibility of craftsmanship that after only half a century it was hard to believe it was not two hundred and fifty years old. A somewhat smaller house, the Salutation at Sandwich of 1912, is similar and perhaps even more remarkable as an example of what is almost ‘productive archaeology’ on the part of a man who was not, in fact, at all archaeologically minded. Such houses are the twentieth-century equivalents of Devey’s in the nineteenth century, but they often have a witty originality in the handling of traditional detail that has aptly been called ‘naughty’ and is peculiarly personal to Lutyens.[527]

If the Georgian had to be revived in the way of the Greek and the Gothic, it could hardly have been done with more competence and more animation; certainly the Americans of Lutyens’s generation rarely excelled so notably in this particular field, although many of the once highly esteemed firms mentioned earlier positively specialized in it. Beside these houses of Lutyens, the Neo-Georgian of the Shepley firm’s Harvard Houses or Cram’s Sweet Briar College is merely routine. Yet in such work Lutyens was still only a country-house architect.

Before discussing Lutyens’s work at the Hampstead Garden Suburb, with which his association began in 1908, something should be said concerning the ‘Garden City’ movement[528] in general. In 1892 Ebenezer Howard[529] (1850-1928) published _Tomorrow. A Peaceful Path to Reform_, better known by the title of the edition of 1902 as _Garden Cities of Tomorrow_. Howard’s opportunity to realize his aspirations for a new sort of town began with the acquisition of land at Letchworth in 1903, but the construction of the Letchworth Garden City on the plans of Sir Raymond Unwin (1863-1940) and his partner Richard Barry Parker actually post-dates their work at the Hampstead Garden Suburb. They had, however, already laid out a ‘model village’ for a chocolate manufacturer at New Earswick near York in 1904.

In 1907 Dame Henrietta Barnett set out to realize some aspects of the Garden City ideal on the outskirts of London. The next year land was acquired near Golders Green on the far side of Hampstead Heath and the suburb planned as a whole by Parker & Unwin.[530] Lutyens was invited to plan and design the group of public buildings in the centre and their immediate setting (Figure 54). This town centre was eventually largely completed, most of it from Lutyens’s design, and the two churches, with the contiguous squares, provide some of his finest work. His work here certainly set a pace of coherence and urbanity that was unfortunately not maintained in later Garden Cities such as Welwyn, begun in 1919, that followed the rather more diffuse plan of Letchworth.

Welwyn, however, is of importance in the history of town-planning because it was not merely a residential development but included from the first an industrial estate as well. Thus it was a more complete entity and the prototype of the English ‘New Towns’ initiated after the Second World War. The Barnett project was originally, and has remained, an upper-middle-class suburb; yet it is unique for the orderliness and the distinction of the public buildings that Lutyens provided at the centre and the terrace-framed squares that flank them.

St Jude’s, the Anglican church, begun in 1910 and not finally completed at the west end until 1933, is Lutyens’s principal ecclesiastical work, his Catholic cathedral in Liverpool having been barely begun before his death. Lacking the emotional drama of the Scandinavian churches of its period, St Jude’s has nevertheless a certain real boldness of silhouette, produced by rather eclectic means, and an elegance of craftsmanship in the brickwork that is in the finest tradition of the Gothic Revival. Yet, being by Lutyens, it is hardly at all medieval. The tall crossing tower may have slight suggestions of the Norman in its detailing and a cathedral-like scale, but in general the exterior is in a vaguely seventeenth-century vernacular descending from the later work of Shaw and Webb.

[Illustration:

Figure 54. Sir Edwin Lutyens: Hampstead Garden Suburb, London, North and South Squares, 1908 ]

The interior, rather surprisingly, proves to be almost High Renaissance in character; there is even a barrel vault over the nave. On the other hand, the timberwork of the roofs of the aisles, which descend so low on either side, is of a structural peculiarity recalling Webb at his crankiest if not, indeed, Butterfield. Except for the highly exceptional London church of the Holy Redeemer, Clerkenwell, built by J. D. Sedding (1837-91) in 1887-8, so truly Palladian—rather than Anglo-Palladian—internally as almost to persuade one that it is Italian, no non-Gothic church of this quality had been built in England for two generations. Lutyens’s more modest Free Church is rather similar, both inside and out, but considerably less effective.

To surround two sides of both North Square and South Square beside the churches Lutyens revived the Early Georgian terrace, varying the composition ingeniously and handling the beautifully laid bricks in two colours, reddish and greyish, with a fascinating subtlety. Unfortunately such truly urban housing stood no chance with the clientèle drawn to this and other Garden Cities as against the appeal of free-standing or semi-detached houses. No general revival of the terrace occurred. But Parker & Unwin and their emulators achieved in individual houses a standard of semi-traditional suavity that represents one of the principal English achievements of the period, and something frequently imitated abroad.

Lutyens’s call to lay out New Delhi as the capital of India followed in 1911, and the first plans were made before 1914. It was a commission better suited to his leaping imagination than the modest domesticity of an English Garden City. Construction of the buildings, notably the enormous Viceroy’s House, began only in 1920.[531] Not since L’Enfant laid out Washington had a fiat city of such amplitude and grandeur been conceived, much less even partly executed. The Viceroy’s House, finally finished in 1931, is official residence, centre of administration, and focus of the whole scheme—a _tour de force_ for which, from the Queen Anne, the Neo-Georgian, and the Palladian, Lutyens lifted his sights to a Roman scale (Plate 181). The result is grand and broad, adapted to the climate, and even reminiscent of the Indian architectural past in some of its forms and features. Towards the designing of such a major monument generations of Frenchmen and others who studied at the Beaux-Arts had been prepared; there is a certain irony that this opportunity came to an Englishman, trained in the most private and individualistic English way.

Nashdom and Great Maytham represent a side of Lutyens’s mature talent that follows rather directly from Webb’s Smeaton Manor of the seventies (Plate 102A). The work at the Hampstead Garden Suburb, and above all that at Delhi, represents another side. On the one side he had a few worthy rivals: Leonard A. S. Stokes (1858-1925)[532] was a more adventurous architect than he around 1900, with some leaning towards the Art Nouveau; Shaw’s pupil Newton was almost as competent at Neo-Georgian work. Those who tried to rival him on the other side, however, Sir Reginald Blomfield (1856-1942), a pupil of Norman Shaw, and Sir Herbert Baker (1862-1946), a pupil of Ernest George, hardly deserve mention, even though their work bulks very large on the London scene.

Blomfield’s watered-down version of Shaw’s quadrant façade of the Piccadilly Hotel, carried out in the twenties, has been mentioned. Better examples of what may be called in W. S. Gilbert’s terms his ‘not too French, French’ academicism face Piccadilly Circus. But his pretensions to cosmopolitanism, although based on a very considerable knowledge of French seventeenth- and eighteenth-century architecture, did not serve him as well as Lutyens’s purely English background in continuing along the ‘Monumental Queen Anne’ line of Shaw’s late work.

Baker’s outrageous rape of Soane’s masterpiece, the Bank of England, carried out over the years 1921-37, has also been mentioned; it was literally a fate worse than death. Despite a half-hearted decision to preserve a good deal of the relatively unimportant exterior, the Tivoli Corner was pointlessly stripped of its idiosyncratic crown, presumably in the name of Baker’s superior ‘taste’. His South Africa House of 1935, moreover, all but ruins Trafalgar Square.

Lutyens’s Midland Bank of 1924, near the Bank of England in Poultry, like Baker’s bank almost a skyscraper in size if not in height, at least required the destruction of no earlier work of distinction and is undoubtedly more consistently and personally designed. Yet the cliff-like massiveness of its walls, with even less evidence of the underlying structural skeleton than in office buildings of this period by American architects, is almost as anti-urbanistic as Baker’s Bank of England. Because of the very narrow streets of the area, the filling up of the City of London with such structures, very few of them even of this degree of intrinsic interest, was a tragedy of the twenties that even bombing did not put right. The superiority of Corbett’s Bush House, not in the rather flat detailing but in the exploitation of the fine site at the foot of Kingsway, and even in the politeness of the plain foil it offers to the Baroque elaboration of Gibbs’s St Mary-le-Strand, is very notable.

Lutyens’s other big Midland Bank buildings, one of 1928 in Leadenhall Street in the City and one of 1929 in King Street in Manchester, are not much of an improvement over that in Poultry. However, his elegant little Midland Bank of 1922 in Piccadilly in front of Wren’s St James’s is a rich and inventive exercise in the vein of Wren built of brick and stone. Anachronistic as such a design must be considered, the verve of the _pastiche_ nevertheless has a distinct appeal, like a plausibly realistic setting on the stage.

Lutyens’s most successful big business building is doubtless Britannic House of 1924-7. This profits from its site between Finsbury Circus and Moorgate Street, the curve of the Circus giving to the eastern front a certain major Baroque drama that is echoed in the versatile play with seventeenth-eighteenth-century motifs in the detailing. But one may well prefer the massively mock-Egyptian effect of Adelaide House by London Bridge, built by Sir John Burnet & Tait in 1924-5. This, at least, makes some approach to the new ideals of the Continent in these years. Burnet, moreover, had been for decades one of the most competent British practitioners in a local version of the international Beaux-Arts mode, as his King Edward VII wing of the British Museum of 1904 notably illustrates. Three years later Tait was the first English-born architect[533] to attempt to build in the International Style, as has been mentioned earlier. The closest Lutyens came to the Continental modes of the twenties was in his public housing.

Public housing in England between the wars was generally rather routine in design despite the statistical importance of its social achievement, lacking either the drama of the Dutch or the restraint of the Scandinavians. On the one occasion when Lutyens turned his attention to this field, on the Grosvenor Estate in Westminster in 1928, he succeeded beyond all expectation. The bold device of chequering all the façades of his blocks of flats in alternate oblongs of brickwork, plain stucco panels, and windows is somewhat inhuman in scale but notably effective. The contrast is striking to the work of the twenties by the London County Council Architect’s Office. In that a type of design not unsuited to semi-detached houses in middle-class suburbs was spread thin over vast many-storeyed masses.

Lutyens, one feels, in a different time and place—a generation earlier in England, say, or a generation later—might have been a greater architect. But even as his career actually worked out, he is not unworthy to occupy the place given him here as the ‘last traditionalist’. Since his death there has not been, either in England or elsewhere, any traditional or even semi-traditional building of consequence, unless one wishes to consider Perret’s work at Le Havre in the latter category.

The traditional architecture of the first third of the twentieth century in Italy and France, headquarters in so many ways of the major architectural traditions of the western world, is disappointing beside that of the countries discussed so far. In the case of France, the situation is confused by the modulation of Perret’s style towards a semi-traditional Classicism which, by the thirties, official and academic taste was ready to meet half-way. In Italy Marcello Piacentini (1881-1960), the son of the architect of the Academy of Fine Arts in the Via Nazionale in Rome, always had more vitality than the French of his generation other than Perret. From the new _città bassa_ of Bergamo, for which he won the competition in 1907 and which was executed in 1922-4, through his general responsibility for the _Terza Roma_, Mussolini’s vast project for a new capital between old Rome and Ostia which was to have opened with an exhibition in 1942, there is a certain assurance and amplitude of scale lacking in most contemporary work in France. Mussolini, in the middle years of Fascism, was not averse to modern architecture, as we have seen. When, under German influence, he began to turn against the International Style the choice of Piacentini to set a neo-imperial pace was as natural as Hitler’s return to the modes of twenty years earlier in Germany. Moreover, from the public buildings of Bergamo through the ‘New Towns’ below Rome—Littoria, Sabaudia, Pontinia, etc., mostly destroyed during the Second World War—to the arcaded cube of La Padulla’s Palace of Italian Civilization at the _Terza Roma_, nicknamed by Italians the ‘Square Colosseum’, fine materials, clean if familiar proportions, and excellent craftsmanship provide certain lasting qualities not unworthy of Italian national traditions. Where Fascist work is interpolated in an earlier urbanistic scheme, as along the Via Roma in Turin between the Piazza San Carlo and the Piazza Carlo Felice, the new buildings of 1938—here by Piacentini—fit as well with the seventeenth-century buildings of the one as with the nineteenth-century ones of the other. For all their obviousness, moreover, the colonnades of the Via Roma, all of polished granite monoliths, have a truly Roman scale and dignity. Even the Square Colosseum has a Chirico-like obsessive force, like something out of a dream; while the big unfinished structures around it, only now being completed, are not altogether without virtues to balance the mid century conventionality of those that have lately risen beside them.

To pursue the subject of traditional architecture further would be merely to explore what can now be seen to have been not so much a cul-de-sac as a road without a goal. The standards of traditionalism—standards of ‘taste’, of ‘literacy’, of ingenious adaptation—were still on the whole nineteenth-century ones. Yet down into the thirties, traditional buildings were the big trees in the forest of twentieth-century architecture; with the rise of a new range of giants in the forest, the seedlings from which they grew seem now to have been more significant: Asplund’s Stockholm Exhibition of 1930 and his Crematorium there of 1935-40 tend to obscure our vision of his earlier Library, although that is perhaps finer considered absolutely. So also the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society skyscraper of 1932, so clearly the immediate ancestor of those built in the last decade, draws attention away from the Woolworth Building. In England continuity has been so completely broken that it is hard to realize how much the ‘Mannerist’ façade-treatment of Drake & Lasdun’s tall housing slabs of 1946-56 on the Paddington Estate has in common with Lutyens’s chequered Grosvenor Estate blocks of thirty years ago. However the future may evaluate the achievements of the traditional architects of the early twentieth century, the chapter is now closed.

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## CHAPTER 25

ARCHITECTURE AT THE MID CENTURY

TO describe the state of architecture in the late forties and early fifties, before and after the mid-point of this century, is far more difficult than to sketch its condition a hundred and fifty years earlier, as the first chapter of this book attempted. The western world was enormously larger in geographical extent, vastly more populous, and as a result very much more productive of buildings of all types and at all levels of quality. Many of the types most important in the twentieth century—big business buildings, low-cost public housing, facilities for transportation such as bus stations and airports—did not exist in 1800. These difficulties are objective and merely imply that the sampling of executed work must be relatively much more limited. But the very limited selection provided here is inevitably influenced by subjective criteria. The activity of two generations of historians writing on the architecture of the early nineteenth century has produced something approaching a consensus of opinion as to what is and what is not important or characteristic in that period. There remains, of course, much to be discovered concerning building in the decades around 1800,

## particularly as interest rises in the technical aspects of the story;

yet the engineers[534] are unlikely ever to force the Soanes and the Schinkels out of the centre of the picture: moreover, men like Latrobe and Mills were themselves as much engineers as architects.

Already, in carrying the story of the production of the leading architects of the first and second generations of modern architecture down to the mid fifties, a certain emphasis has been given to their work in the production of the last decades. The decisions as to what to include in rounding out the picture are critical ones hardly comparable to the relatively objective historical process of selection that controls in the First and Second Parts of this book. The very extent in time of what should be considered ‘the present’ is a subjective matter. I have known American architectural students whose present was so limited that they had never heard of Perret! To anyone under thirty the effective present will hardly extend backward more than five or ten years. To keep this chapter still more or less historical I have saved consideration of the years since the later fifties for an Epilogue.

In most countries of the western world the Second World War occasioned a hiatus in construction that lasted nearly a full decade from the slowing down that came with Munich in the late thirties to the general revival of building activity in the late forties. There is therefore a real lack of continuity between pre-war and post-war building except in those countries that remained neutral. But just as the break in the continuity of building production around 1800 resulting from the Napoleonic Wars was a limited, not an absolute, phenomenon, since the truly revolutionary developments in architecture preceded rather than followed its onset, so there was in the last post-war period very little to be recognized at first that had not had its beginnings well before 1939.

The perspective of the war seemed somehow to flatten out some of the architectural episodes deemed to be significant in the mid thirties, not alone the Nazi and late Fascist reaction but such minor symptoms of dissatisfaction with the general line that architectural development had taken internationally since the early twenties as the rise of the Bay Region School[535] in America and of the New Empiricism in Europe. Historians are still rather uncertain how much weight to give to these matters. Once they lost the topicality of current events they seemed no more and no less significant than the rather similar critical flurries that came later concerning the ‘New Brutalism’ and ‘Neo-Liberty’.[536] Such flurries cannot be entirely ignored;[537] yet the general emendation of the rigid doctrines of the ‘International Style’ was more strikingly illustrated by the continued high esteem of Wright’s latest productions and, _a fortiori_, by the warm critical reception of Le Corbusier’s remarkable church at Ronchamp than by any of the buildings that illustrated the schismatic reactions of the decade of the thirties. The accepted definitions of modern architecture had undoubtedly become very much looser than they were a generation earlier, partly as a result of various abortive attempts at more thoroughgoing revolt. But the greatest individualists were, paradoxically, not young men[538] in their thirties, but older masters in their late sixties, seventies, and eighties.

The greatest change in the post-war architectural scene, a change that began gradually during the pre-war years, was the shift in the geographical pattern. No longer did France, Germany, and Holland occupy the centre of the stage. The rise of the United States to great prominence, continuing a development already begun in the 1870s, was not surprising. Far more surprising was the rise in the importance of Italy and Japan, not only because of their actual achievements, especially in concrete construction in both cases, but as major influences. This was presaged in Italy by the work of Terragni and of Figini & Pollini in the mid thirties and was hardly inhibited there by the ambiguities of the later Fascist attitude towards architecture just before the Second World War. The post-war British achievement was more canalized; yet it was of an autochthonous character which a long-term consideration of English architectural abilities and disabilities makes more intelligible than that flurry of new ideas, so largely of foreign origin, characterizing the mid thirties in England.

The Scandinavian countries retained their position of prominence but not pre-eminence in the international architectural scene. In contrast to their long-recognized virtues, some rather less relevant today than they once were, must be set the very different contribution of the Latin American countries, whose entry on the international scene all but post-dates the war. Production there was hardly worth mentioning a hundred and fifty years ago; by the late forties Brazil, Mexico, Colombia, and Venezuela were making a contribution on a par, in quantity and even in quality, with older and richer countries. Moreover, while the West was more and more losing political control of Africa and Asia, its cultural influence on those continents did not necessarily decline, indeed as regards architecture it probably increased. Modern architecture, originally developed to utilize to the full the most advanced technologies, was found to serve especially well also in areas where technology was least advanced. Indeed, the most characteristic building material of modern architecture, ferro-concrete, is often exploited most ingeniously in countries where materials are dear and labour cheap.

Not only did many outlying parts of the world import architects along with other technicians from the West; Asia, which lay almost entirely outside the field of western culture a century and a half ago, produced a great modern school in Japan. Various Dominions and dependencies—South Africa, Australia, Puerto Rico, for example—likewise began to have

## active groups of local practitioners operating in close consort of

principle with those of Europe and North America.

With so wide a range of lively activity, no continent-by-continent, much less country-by-country, survey of modern architecture is possible in a single short chapter. Even allowing for all the enormous climatic and cultural differences that still affect architectural production, there was still sufficient identity of principle in architecture throughout most of the world to justify an international consideration of post-war achievement in terms of various building types, moving from the macrocosm down to the microcosm—from the whole city as a planned product of architectural design to the individual dwelling-house.

Despite its vast productive capacity, the old western world in the mid twentieth century created rather fewer urban entities of distinction than did the nineteenth. Partly, this was because the building of cities necessarily remains a slower process than the building of individual structures, even in an age when there are many fiat towns and also much concerted rebuilding of older cities partially cleared by bombing in the Second World War. Even more, perhaps, it is because it takes far longer for the ‘planning’ ideals of architects in any period to achieve a degree of public acceptance sufficient to ensure over decades proper control of layout and construction—or reconstruction—of whole cities than to find clients, even governmental clients, for single buildings or for extensive, but piecemeal, social projects.

Perret’s Le Havre (Plate 140A) has earlier been characterized as the realization—notable even if belated—of ideals that date back before the First World War. None of the post-war ‘New Towns’ of England were complete enough by the mid fifties to be apprehensible as urban entities; for the most part they were still only large-scale housing developments—suburbs in search of a city, so to say—realizing at a considerably lower economic level the ideals of the Garden Cities of fifty years before. Better than the English examples and indicative of the widespread acceptance of Garden-City ideals was Vållingby in Sweden.

More complete urban entities of the mid century could be seen in such heavily bombed and largely rebuilt cities as Coventry in England or Hanover in Germany; yet in neither case was the architectural achievement of the highest contemporary order. They should be compared for quality with Napoleon III’s Paris or Francis Joseph’s Vienna rather than with Alexander I’s Petersburg or Ludwig I’s Munich, and even that comparison is not always very favourable to them.

In the extensive and almost explosive expansion and reconstruction of various Latin American cities it was only in Caracas that the planner Maurice Rotival was able to keep a bit ahead of the builders. But even Caracas still had only samples of the characteristic new urbanism of the mid twentieth century: two or three isolated skyscrapers and a housing development, the Cerro Piloto, differing from those in other parts of the world chiefly by its very great extent and its superb mountain-backed site. The North American cities that were growing fastest, Houston or Los Angeles or Miami Beach or Toronto in Canada, were at least as chaotic as the Latin American ones, and neither the quantity nor the quality of the individual buildings was as high. Against the eruptive growth of a city like São Paulo in Brazil might be better balanced such a North American programme of large-scale rebuilding as that which had already cleared the Golden Triangle in Pittsburgh, replacing typical nineteenth-century urban congestion with an open park and spaced cruciform skyscrapers. The new capital of Brazil, Brasilia, was not planned by Lúcio Costa even on paper until 1957.

The mid twentieth century had no full-scale cities that properly exemplified the highest ideals of modern architects. It would be necessary to wait, with fingers crossed, even to see the results of such piecemeal projects of reconstruction as that proposed by Sir William Holford for the bombed district around St Paul’s Cathedral in London,[539] and still longer for such complete cities as Brasilia and Chandigarh where, however, the public buildings by Le Corbusier were in the mid fifties rapidly rising. But there were also in existence already certain special entities of almost urban scale planned since the Second World War that deserve attention. Notable are the ‘university cities’, complete educational plants located on new terrain, planned as a whole and designed as regards their individual buildings either by a single team of architects or by several teams whose work was closely co-ordinated from start to finish. The most remarkable of these is that of the University of Mexico, but even here the difference in quality between such highly original structures as the Olympic Stadium of Augusto Perez Palacios (b. 1909), Raúl Salinas Moro, and Jorge Bravo Jiménez of 1951-2, with its fine relief mosaic by Diego Rivera, or the Central Library of Juan O’Gorman, Gustavo Saavedra, and Juan Martinez de Velasco of 1951-3, with its stack tower entirely covered with mosaics designed by O’Gorman, and certain of the other equally large and prominent buildings is very notable (Plate 184). The university city of Rio de Janeiro, for which Le Corbusier was originally called to Brazil to provide a plan in 1936, was by no means so far advanced; but the control of the design of all the principal buildings by one architect, Jorge Moreira (b. 1904), who is one of the three or four ablest in Brazil, seemed to promise a homogeneity of character and a distinction of finish unique in this field. Among several other Latin American examples begun and partly built by the mid fifties, that at Caracas by Carlos Raúl Villanueva (b. 1900) rivals in its principal building, the Aula Magna of 1952-3 with its extraordinary acoustic ceiling by the technician Robert Newman and the sculptor Sandy Calder, the achievement of the Mexicans.

Of a very different character indeed, and initiated much earlier, is the University of Aarhus[540] in Denmark for which Kay Fisker, C. F. Møller (b. 1898), and Povl Stegmann (1888-1944) won the competition in 1931. Some of its many buildings date from before the Second World War: professors’ houses of 1933, student residences of 1934, museum of natural history of 1937-8; while most of the classroom buildings were actually erected in the war years 1942-6. The work continues in the hands of Møller, and the layout of the beautiful sloping site was by C. Th. Sørenson (b. 1893). Built of buff brick with tile roofs of medium pitch, the general effect is much quieter than that of the Latin American university cities with their tall ferro-concrete buildings, crisply shaped and distinguished both by a bold use of colour and the conspicuous incorporation of work by distinguished painters and sculptors. At first sight—and to the prejudiced—the University of Aarhus may appear more conservative; but the range of the new architecture is recognized today as being wider than it was thirty years ago, and Møller’s _aula_ in its very different way is quite as advanced as Villanueva’s; or even, for that matter, as the shell-domed auditorium of 1952-5 at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, Mass., by Eero Saarinen (1910-61).

One of the earliest individual building types to find wholly untraditional expression was the large block of offices. The skyscraper reached maturity early in the hands of Sullivan in Chicago; the later vagaries of the form in New York did not recommend it to European emulation, although skyscraper projects by Mies, by Gropius, and by Le Corbusier were among the most notable early evidences of the birth—on paper—of a new architecture in the years 1919-22. Howe & Lescaze’s Philadelphia Savings Fund Society Building of a decade later was the first large-scale example of the acceptance in America of the new architecture of Europe; but during the thirties skyscraper-building languished, and many critics thought that their day was already over. In many parts of the world that day had yet to dawn, and Europe still had very few notable examples to offer, but in the New World the fifties saw the start of a new wave of skyscraper building by no means confined to the United States. For the first time since the nineties a rather considerable number of really distinguished examples were being built in both North and South American cities. Wright’s Price Tower at Bartlesville, Okla., a relatively modest one, and Mies and Johnson’s Seagram Building in New York have both been mentioned already. Diagonally across Park Avenue in New York from the site of the Seagram tower stands the first epoch-making post-war skyscraper in New York, Lever House, designed by Gordon Bunshaft (b. 1909) of the Skidmore, Owings & Merrill firm and built in 1950-2 (Plate 189). The almost completely glazed curtain-walls of the east and west sides of the United Nations Secretariat in New York—built in 1947-50 by Wallace K. Harrison (b. 1895) and his partner Max Abramowitz (b. 1908) but incorporating ideas provided by an international panel of which Le Corbusier and Niemeyer were members—are carried round three sides of Bunshaft’s slab. More significant, however, is the fact that this slab, rising like the isolated United Nations building with no setbacks, covers only a portion of the available site. Thus it stands in its own envelope of space carved, as it were, out of the solid canyon of Park Avenue, just as Mies and Johnson would later set their building back 100 feet from the avenue and well in from both the side streets also. Their ‘plaza’ is unconfined; Bunshaft’s open space is defined by a mezzanine on _pilotis_ carried round an unroofed court.

Reacting against the almost totally glazed curtain-wall of his U.N. Secretariat, a type of sheathing for large urban structures then spreading very rapidly to other countries, Harrison on the Alcoa Building of 1952 in Pittsburgh used storey-high panels of aluminium cut by relatively small windows. This alternative type of sheathing has been less exploited since, however, than the more completely glazed sort. There was a curious revival of Expressionist feeling in the complex angular design of the glazed lobby of the Alcoa Building that contrasted sharply with the paradigmatic expression of the ‘International Style’ seen in the Equitable Building in Portland, Ore., of 1948 by Pietro Belluschi (b. 1899), the earliest of the interesting post-war skyscrapers. A later Western skyscraper, the Mile-High Center in Denver, Col., completed by I. M. Pei (b. 1907) in 1955, followed almost more closely the formula of Mies’s Lake Shore Drive Apartments in Chicago than he did himself in the design of the Seagram Building.

It is invidious to mention only these few North American examples, but production of similar skyscrapers was already so nation-wide in the United States and in Canada that one can still hardly hope to see the individual trees for the forest. There are good reasons why those selected for illustration or mention are likely to remain conspicuous and not become lost in the crowd. But skyscrapers are no longer a prerogative of North America; some of the finest were rising in Latin America, and these would before long be rivalled by European examples already projected or even under construction by 1955.

It is a mistake to assume that North Americans housed business only in skyscrapers. More and more large corporations were moving their headquarters to the open country. Quite as significant as Lever House in the production of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill in the mid fifties was the 700-foot-square but only four-storeyed office plant of the Connecticut General Insurance Company of 1955-7, set in a park of eighteenth-century size and amenity at Bloomfield, Conn., some ten miles outside Hartford, the insurance capital. Luxury of materials, white marble and granite as well as aluminium, makes up somewhat for the rigid asceticism of the standardized walls, while four interior court gardens by Noguchi and three pink granite figures by him on the slope beyond the ‘artificial water’ in which swans swim about below the all-glass cafeteria further balance the expression of crisp efficiency with something warmer and more humane.

In most Latin American cities all-glass walls are impractical because of the heat and the glare of the sun. As a result, architects have developed various versions of the sun-break system introduced twenty years ago on the first tall modern building to be erected in that part of the world, the Ministry of Education in Rio; glazed curtain-walls were by no means unknown, however. The egg-crate sun-breaks of the Edificio C.B.I. of 1948-51 in São Paulo by Lucjan Korngold (b. 1897) and the horizontally patterned grid of the Retiro Odontológico of 1953-4 in Havana by Antonio Quintana Simonetti and Manuel A. Rubio give these buildings a very different look from such examples of more North American character as the building in the Calle de Niza at the corner of the Calle de Londres in Mexico City of 1952-3 by Juan Sordo Madaleno (b. 1916), or that of the Suramericana de Seguros in the Avenida Jiménez de Quesada in Bogotá of 1954 by Cuéllar, Serrano, Gomez & Co.

The most ingenious and best designed Latin American skyscraper of the fifties, however, is the completely isolated Edificio Polar of 1953-4 at the Plaza Venezuela in Caracas. This was built by Martin Vegas Pacheco (b. 1926), a pupil of Mies at the Illinois Institute of Technology, and his partner José Miguel Galia, a pupil of the one distinguished South American architect of the first modern generation, Julio Vilamajó, at the University of Montevideo. Here the structure was reduced to four ferro-concrete piers from which the curtain-walls were cantilevered out 11 feet on all four sides. The curtain-walls have a varied infilling, part solid sandwiches of plywood and aluminium sheeting, part louvres that transmit air but not light, and part glass. These are combined in different proportions on each side according to the orientation in order to control the glare and the heat of the sun while providing direct ventilation. Since this tower was isolated, it needed no envelope of space; in fact, however, the wider mezzanine extending under the base of the tower does provide this. The two open storeys, one at ground level and one above the mezzanine, give a lightness of effect and a frank view of the essential structure that is even more striking than at Lever House, where the relation of the towering slab to the mezzanine is less boldly handled.

European skyscrapers[541] as yet rarely rivalled North American ones in height, and few large urban office buildings reached even the median level of quality of those in Latin America. In rebuilding bombed cities, however, there were opportunities that could readily be exploited for carrying certain buildings very high over a portion only of their sites, as was first done in North America at Lever House, but using the ampler spaces provided by the replanning of the cities to extend lower blocks from the main slab. One of the best examples of this treatment is the Continental Rubber Building of 1952-3 in Hanover by Werner Dierschke and Ernst Zinsser, which replaces Behrens’s ponderous block of thirty years earlier that was destroyed in the war. The surfacing materials, mostly various stones, are serviceable and the general composition well studied, but the proportions lack the elegant lightness of the Edificio Polar. Yet the whole achieved a ‘reality’ of effect lacking in the C.B.I. in São Paulo, which looks, despite its great size, rather like a cardboard model; or Lever House, which too much resembles a slick cellophane-wrapped package. Some German commercial work at smaller scale was more refined, as, for example, the Haus der Glas-Industrie of 1951 at Düsseldorf by Bernhard Pfau and Pempelfort Haus there of 1954 by Hentrich & Petschnigg, or the Burda-Moden Building of the same date in Offenburg by Egon Eiermann. Hentrich & Petschnigg are also responsible for the striking BASF skyscraper at Ludwigshafen, the tallest built in the Old World up to the mid fifties.

Post-war Italian commercial work was more varied and imaginative than in other countries, but the tallest examples were not the best. Very often it was the fine marble or mosaic surfacing—echoed in the BASF—and the high quality of the craftsmanship that seemed to give them interest and an effect of luxury rarely yet found in other countries, rather than real distinction of design. Interestingly enough, since post-war Latin America has tended to follow Italian models, one of the best Italian buildings of this decade, the Olivetti offices in Milan of 1954-5 by G. A. Bernasconi, Annibale Fiocchi (b. 1915), and M. Nizzoli, has a very Latin American air because of its prominent sun-breaks. This was one of the few buildings premiated by the international jury at the São Paulo Biennal in 1957, and the only non-Brazilian one.

Industrial construction has not even yet been as fully accepted into the realm of architecture as has commercial building for the last hundred years. Ever since the factories of Behrens and the warehouses of Perret, however, industrial commissions have played an increasingly important

## part in modern architectural production. Probably the largest acreage of

good factory-building just after the war, as earlier in the century, was in North America. With rising standards of amenity, moreover, and the substitution of road haulage for rail transportation, factories came out from behind the railway tracks and took their proper place visually as well as functionally, with well-maintained grounds as important features, in regional planning. It is hard to single out particular factories for mention, if only because their design, whether it is by engineers or by specialist architectural firms like Albert Kahn, Inc., had arrived at a largely anonymous standardization—the fate, incidentally, towards which some critics see all twentieth-century architecture as inevitably moving.

The General Motors Technical Institute at Warren, Mich., completed by Eero Saarinen in 1955 after a decade of planning and construction, is almost more comparable in scale and complexity to a university city than to a factory; yet this group of twenty-five buildings organized round a large rectangular artificial lake is also in its use and in its character a major example of American industrial building raised at the behest of a corporate client into the realm of distinguished architecture (Plate 168B; Figure 55). Little or no link remained between this and even the latest buildings designed by Eliel Saarinen on which his son collaborated, although the former was involved in this commission down to his death in 1950. Instead, the influence of Mies was very strong, since in the younger Saarinen’s estimation the Miesian discipline was specially suitable for giving order to such a project, in terms both of over-all planning and of the characteristic structural vocabulary of curtain-walling. Yet the necessary variety of size and shape of the buildings, determined in part by the very different

## activities that they house, from power-houses and engine-test cells to

the Styling Centre for new motor-car models, made impossible the imposition of so classic a pattern as Mies had aimed to produce at the Illinois Institute of Technology (Figure 52). In conscious avoidance of the monotony of the motor-car factories around Detroit, which run on without modification for thousands of feet, and in pursuit of ideals which most modern planners have realized only on paper, Eero Saarinen accented his long lake-front with a water-tower all of stainless steel rising out of the water and provided a special domed unit at the south end to house the display of new models beside the one section of the complex to which the outside world has some access. Moreover, he varied the characteristic metal-and-glass vocabulary of the façades—the metal in general black oxidized aluminium, the glass greenish in tone to reduce glare in the interiors—with solid walls of glazed brick in various brilliant colours, almost rivalling the Mexicans in the intensity of the reds, blues, yellows, and greens that he chose. As with the later Connecticut General plant, sculpture of distinction, here by Antoine Pevsner, provides a note of humane interest amid all the expression of mechanistic efficiency.

In Europe the Olivetti Company were more consistent patrons of distinguished design in architecture than General Motors. The main plant at Ivrea, designed by Figini & Pollini, is small by American standards, and has been in existence for some time—since 1942. It is chiefly notable because it is the heart, as it is the _raison d’être_, of an architectural programme of almost urbanistic scope at Ivrea that is still in process of

[Illustration:

Figure 55. Saarinen & Saarinen: Warren, Mich., General Motors Technical Institute, 1946-55, layout ]

realization by Figini & Pollini and by the resident architect Fiocchi, whose small foundry of 1954-5 is an exemplary industrial unit of almost Miesian elegance. Characteristic now of most Latin countries are the sun-breaks on the south-west side of the large Ivrea factory; while the north-east façade rises four storeys in sheer glass like a vast extension of Gropius’s studio block at the Bauhaus. Of the present period of the fifties, and better sited, more articulated, and more self-complete, is the later Olivetti factory at Pozzuoli near Naples by Luigi Cosenza. Structurally, however, the industrial work of the engineer Nervi is more original.

Factories are still more likely to be designed by engineers than by architects; but the contribution of engineers to their design is by no means always standardized and monotonous. Particularly in those countries where the lack of steel encourages the use of ferro-concrete, engineers were devising notably imaginative solutions to the problems of space-coverage and lighting. The Spanish-born engineer Candela in Mexico worked with ferro-concrete vaults in industrial construction with the casual ease and _ad hoc_ ingenuity of a twelfth-century Frenchman building in stone; yet his church of Nuestra Señora de los Milagros of 1953-5 gave the impression of being a reversion to Expressionism, despite the unassailable mathematical and structural logic of the hyperbolic paraboloid forms of its ‘ruled surfaces’. The Italian-born José Delpini, in such factories as his S.I.T. Spinning Shed of 1949-50 at Pilar in Argentina, easily rivalled the work of the leading modern architects of Argentina in the distinction as in the scale of his buildings. The Danish-born Ore Arup in England, working with the Architects Co-Partnership on the artificial rubber factory at Bryn Mawr in Wales, provided one of the most notable large-scale buildings in post-war Great Britain, and deserves much of the credit for it. To return to the work of architects, it should be noted that in England, where most post-war industrial building was rather modest in size, the power-stations of Farmer & Dark, culminating in that of 1955-7 at Marchwood, have a grandeur of scale and a logic of partially open design that ordinary factories can almost never rival.

Industrial building, still at the frontier of architecture despite the great contribution it has made to more general developments since the English mills of the 1790s, was notably international in its twentieth-century standards and its achievements. The leading industrial firms, such as Albert Kahn, Inc., and that of Frankland Dark were asked to build in many parts of the world, for the traditions of the old-established technologies are of especial value in such work. The continued existence of cultural empires, so to call them, is still made manifest when English firms build power-houses and factories in the Middle and Far East. James Cubitt & Partners[542] completed in Rangoon in 1955, for example, a pharmaceutical plant that was probably the largest post-war factory of architectural interest to be built by an English firm, just as their Technical College at Kumasi in Ghana built at the same time was a more considerable example of a mid-twentieth-century university city than England had yet seen.

The provision of housing by organs of the State had come to be recognized almost everywhere as an essential social service, quite as modern architects always insisted that it should be. Le Corbusier’s Unité at Marseilles is doubtless the most striking single example of the tall structures, slabs or ‘point-blocks’, which were increasingly the characteristic form of such housing, but the most notable general programmes of production were still found in England, in certain Latin American countries, and in Denmark and Sweden. The pressure of population-growth and the need for rebuilding after war-time destruction motivated such programmes almost everywhere, but in several countries notable otherwise for the high standard of their current architecture—the United States and Italy, for example—the results were disappointing indeed. A strong social tradition of public housing, moreover, as in Holland, even with the precedent there of the notably fine work of thirty and forty years ago, seemed then to be no guarantee of continued excellence in this field. Although the rising popularity of housing in tall structures is still balanced in England by a strong attachment to small houses built in pairs or in terraces, such as comprise the greater part of the New Towns, English achievement in this field on the whole exceeded that of most other countries in the ten years after the war, both in quantity and in quality. The post-war pace was set by the Churchill Gardens of A. J. Philip Powell (b. 1921) and his partner Hidalgo Moya in Pimlico, London, for which the Westminster Borough Council was the client. For over a decade the planning and building of this vast urban project went forward towards completion with rising standards of design and finish. Perhaps the finest single block is De Quincey House, with its ingenious section of duplexes approached by access galleries. But the Architect’s Department of the London County Council, under the successive leadership of Robert Matthew (b. 1906) and of Sir Leslie Martin (b. 1908), in the last seven years equalled and perhaps exceeded in quality, as many times over in quantity, the achievement of Powell & Moya. Whether on urban sites, such as that at Loughborough Road in South London (Plate 186B), or on more open sites, as at the Ackroydon estate in Putney or at Roehampton, by the combination of tall blocks, some square in plan, some slab-like, with ranges of lower blocks of maisonettes and terraces of houses the L.C.C. has provided—piecemeal at least—examples of mid-twentieth-century urbanism more impressive than anything the New Towns yet offered. A provincial English example of comparable excellence is the Tile Hill Estate outside Coventry by the Borough Architect’s Office.

The forty-eight slabs of the Cerro Piloto development of 1955 built by the Banco Obrero, the Venezuelan public housing corporation, and designed by Guido Bermudez (b. 1925), rising against the mountains outside Caracas more than rival in extent and in scale the English examples. And in the Cerro Grande blocks of flats there, built in 1953-5, Bermudez rivalled the ingenuity of Powell & Moya and the L.C.C. in the use of duplexes. Interesting for the mixture of types—tall slabs, lower blocks of flats, and houses—is the Centro Urbano Presidente Juarez in Mexico City by Mario Pani (b. 1901); the handsome colours used here were chosen by the painter Carlos Mérida. But the most exemplary of the Latin American estates is Pedregulho outside Rio de Janeiro begun in 1948 by Affonso Eduardo Reidy (b. 1909). Here the tall serpentine block at the rear is entered at middle level from the hill slope, a scheme suggested by certain of Le Corbusier’s projects of the thirties for North Africa, and various community buildings provide something of New Town character in the development, as does a range of low blocks with shops at their base in the Tile Hill Estate at Coventry. Most notable is Reidy’s school at Pedregulho with its murals of _azulejos_—glazed tiles—by Cándido Portinari and its characteristic repertory of the architectural forms of the Cariocan School. Of that Reidy, a member of the original group who designed and built the Ministry of Education, was as much one of the founders as Oscar Niemeyer.

In the mid twentieth century, however, it is England that leads in school design and construction even more definitely than in the design of tall housing blocks. In particular, the Hertfordshire County Architect’s Office under C. H. Aslin (1893-1959) developed a system of construction using a light-metal skeleton and prefabricated concrete slabs of very great technical interest. Not all the Hertfordshire schools are designed in the County Architect’s Office, however, and some of the best were by private architects, such as the Architects’ Co-partnership and James Cubitt & Partners (Plate 186A). The new architecture has been more widely and successfully used for schools than for most other types of buildings. Outside England those of Donald Barthelmé in Texas, such as his Elementary School at West Columbia of 1952, and by Ernest J. Kump (b. 1911) in California may be especially noted, although they represent no such concerted programme of design and construction as has spread in England from Hertfordshire to other parts of the country. Outright ‘traditional’ schools are rare anywhere today.

In church architecture the post-war situation was rather different. Although Perret and Wright, Moser and Böhm, among the older generation of modern architects, all built notable churches, until Le Corbusier’s Notre-Dame-du-Haut at Ronchamp the international leaders of the next generation were rarely called on to design them; and from Oud’s church of the late twenties at Oud Mathenesse through Mies’s Chapel of 1950 at the Illinois Institute of Technology it seemed that the extreme rationalism of these men made it difficult if not impossible for them to provide ecclesiastical edifices which differed in any expressive way from meeting-halls. Something was said earlier of the more emotional concrete-vaulted church architecture of Böhm and the line of related advance in the last two decades from the semi-traditional, somewhat Gothic or Baroque, effects of the twenties to work of completely original character. Niemeyer’s São Francisco at Pampulha (Plate 190C), completed in 1943, was one of the buildings that early established his reputation as one of the most imaginative architects of his generation anywhere in the world. Soon Latin American churches as different as Candela’s Nuestra Señora de los Milagros in Mexico City and the unvaulted Beato Martín Porres at Cataño outside San Juan in Puerto Rico by Henry Klumb (b. 1905), a pupil of Wright, were illustrating a wider range of possibilities; while Juvenal Moya’s Nuestra Señora de Fatimá and his chapel at the Ginnásio Moderno in Bogotá, the one of 1953-4, the other of 1954-5, followed—with considerable vulgarization—the more lyrical line of Niemeyer’s São Francisco.

Less operatic, but doubtless better adapted to Protestant use, are the churches in the American Northwest by Belluschi, notably the First Presbyterian of 1951 at Cottage Grove in Oregon. Various Swiss churches, some Catholic but more of them Protestant, followed also in this line, to which such earlier-mentioned churches as Moser’s Sankt Antonius in Basel of 1927 and the elder Saarinen’s Christ Lutheran, Minneapolis, of 1948 belong (Plate 157B). The younger Saarinen’s silo-like circular chapel of red brick at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology of 1954-5, however, reverted to something much more emotional. There is great ingenuity in the handling of the lighting, which streams down from above over a screen by Harry Bertoia and also penetrates more subtly round the edges of the low-arched base through the water of a surrounding moat.

Johnson’s synagogue in Port Chester, N.Y., of 1955-6, while severe in its general character, uses coloured glass in slots between the vertical slabs with which the visible steel frame is filled and also a curved awning-like ceiling of plaster to warm and enrich the basically Miesian paradigm. Accessories by the sculptor Ibrahim Lassaw also play an important part in the interior; while the oval domed entrance vestibule is an element of almost Baroque formal interest despite its ascetic simplicity of execution. Thus, two Mies disciples have offered in their ecclesiastical work correctives to the classroom-like coldness of his own chapel in Chicago.

Such large-scale constructions as factories and tall housing blocks, together with skyscrapers, represent the new architecture’s preoccupation with building problems that the nineteenth century had already essayed, but of which the development was not carried to its logical extremes, either technically or architecturally, before the present period. Curiously enough, in the provision of new edifices to serve the needs of transportation, the nineteenth century in its middle decades was rather more successful in bringing the railway station to quite early maturity than was the twentieth century with the airport. One of the largest and finest post-war buildings of Italy is the Rome railway station (Plate 183B), and within a few years the active campaign of modernizing and rebuilding stations in Italy was notably reflected in other European countries. But airports had still to find so satisfactory an expression, partly because the expansion of traffic everywhere made them inadequate almost before they were completed. Too often the necessity for continual extension has destroyed such integrity of conception as the architects were able to give them in the first place. Some of the world’s busiest, such as Idlewild near New York and Midway near Chicago, were through the nineteen fifties near-shambles beside which century-old railway stations appeared as masterpieces of up-to-date organization! Here, as in many other fields of contemporary building, there seem to be two main lines of approach, but not properly to be distinguished as ‘rational’ versus ‘emotional’, since both are almost entirely dependent on the structural solutions chosen. Of the first sort a relatively early example (which now carries only local traffic and has therefore not had to be expanded), the Santos Dumont Airport by the Roberto brothers begun in 1938 and largely completed after 1944 at the bay’s edge in downtown Rio de Janeiro, remains one of the best; for it is compactly planned, clear and direct in design, and elegant in the choice of materials and the use of colour. The San Juan Airport completed in 1955 by Torro, Ferrer & Torregrossa[543] in Puerto Rico is larger and somewhat less refined in detail, but an excellent example of planning in terms of circulation. The vast London Airport by Gibberd was still incomplete.

Two other airports of much the same date, the very large one at St Louis by Minoru Yamasaki (b. 1912) and Joseph W. Leinweber, and the small one by Pani and his partner Enrique del Moral at Acapulco, used concrete shell vaults with very dramatic effect. It would seem that the ‘classic’ stage of airport design, reached in railway stations between 1845 and 1855, was only beginning in the late fifties, and its climax may well lie many years ahead.

From the airport to the individual dwelling, from the newest sort of structure to what is presumably the oldest, represents a considerable jump. Yet it is at least debatable whether the best houses of the mid twentieth century, continuing a line of development that has earlier been traced forward from 1800 (see Chapter 15), were not more satisfactory solutions of the problems their designing and building poses, both practically and aesthetically, than any of the airports mentioned. To a considerable extent they were as novel.[544] The dwelling may not, in the years after 1925, have developed primarily as a ‘machine for living in’, according to Le Corbusier’s famous phrase, but it certainly became more and more a ‘box for housing machinery in’. As the relative proportion of the total cost spent for mechanical equipment went up, the shell had to shrink. As the shell shrank, planning was increasingly simplified. Only rarely was the ultimate in unification of space reached, as in Mies’s Farnsworth house or Philip Johnson’s own house in New Canaan, Conn., where only the bathroom is enclosed and the other subdivisions of the interior are but ranges of cupboards not reaching to the ceiling. Equally rare is the exclusively glass walling of these two houses, clearly the extreme point of a _crescendo_ that goes back at least to the window-walls of the third quarter of the nineteenth century. But if they represented the end-point of several developments, from which there has since been a return even on the part of their own architects (Plate 190A), the extremes that they illustrate were in many respects those towards which houses in general were then tending.

The house as a detached, individually-designed edifice was still for most people the ideal dwelling. But at no time since 1800 had such a dwelling been more of a luxury. Convenience and economy drove rich and poor alike towards more communal forms of habitation, whether they were the cabañas of the millionaires’ motels at Palm Springs or the low-cost flats in suburban ‘point-blocks’. In between these poles were all the varieties of terrace-housing, ‘semi-detachery’, and builders’ standardized products, ranging from conservative parodies of the individually designed houses of a generation ago through various vulgarizations of more modern houses to the prefabricated package-dwelling which seemed to be no nearer to receiving that general acceptance which would make it economical than it was a hundred years ago. Mass housing, no matter what form it took, whether the forty-eight tall slabs of the Cerro Piloto or the forty-eight hundred, more or less, semi-detached two-storey dwellings of an English housing estate, belongs increasingly to the world of bureaucratized architecture. The house, on the other hand, conceived as an individualized entity, remained almost as much a specialized and exceptional product as the church; yet the changes first made in individual houses gradually affected all housing standards. Particularly in North and South America they still provided architectural opportunities of the greatest interest and variety. Most Latin American houses, for example, retained the semi-oriental ideals of seclusion of the Iberian tradition; yet behind the walls surrounding their plots to cut out the world, they were often opener than houses in the United States, since a warm climate makes of the patio or garden the principal living area. Niemeyer’s own house of 1954 at Gávea outside Rio de Janeiro is almost as much a glass box as Mies’s or Johnson’s, although its glass walls are set under a slab whose outline is a continuous free curve. The house of Osvaldo Arthur Bratke (b. 1907) at 3008 Avenida Morumbí outside São Paulo is also closer in plan and conception to houses in the United States, protection of various sorts being provided by grilles and movable shutters (Figure 56).

[Illustration:

Figure 56. Osvaldo Arthur Bratke: São Paulo, Morumbí, Bratke house, 1953, plan ]

There was considerable variety in mid-century house-design in Latin America, ranging all the way from such Mexican houses as those of Francisco Artigas (b. 1916) or Sordo Madaleno that present a blank wall to the street and yet open up completely to a patio or a garden, to Niemeyer’s open pavilion at Gávea. In North America there was perhaps even wider diversity. Despite the equalization of climate by then readily provided by heating and cooling facilities, there were still great differences between one region and another in the forces of nature that must be controlled or protected against, from the insects and hurricanes of Florida to the blizzards of Minnesota, than between the various countries of Latin America. Johnson’s Davis house at Wayzata in Minnesota was enclosed, however, not because of the climate, but in order to provide hanging space for an art collection, while it opens within on to a patio that can be roofed in winter (Figure 57). Neither screening nor anchorage against high winds is conspicuous in the design of most of the Florida houses of Paul Rudolph (b. 1918). On the West Coast the aberrant casualness of the Bay Region manner of the thirties and forties now became increasingly disciplined. Wooden construction, pitched roofs, and a certain discursiveness of planning still contrasted, however, with more rigidly Miesian design; yet the finest houses of Joseph Esherick in and around San Francisco or of John Yeon in Portland, Ore., to mention only two West Coast architects, sometimes rivalled in distinction those of Johnson and Rudolph.

[Illustration:

Figure 57. Philip Johnson: Wayzata, Minn., Richard S. Davis house, 1954 ]

Whether the building of individual houses in other countries will ever again have the significance it still retains in the New World depends on many extra-architectural factors. The last thing a historian should pretend with regard to this or to any other aspect of the near-present is that he is capable of prophecy. The history of architecture in the second half of this century can only be written in the future. The glimpses—for they are no more than that—of post-war production given here represent a critic’s and not an historian’s selection, and a selection that has inevitably been much influenced by what that critic knows best at first hand.

* * * * *

Despite the obligation to provide in the Introduction some sort of eighteenth-century foundation, this book had a real historical turning-point for its actual beginning; it had, in the mid 1950s, no such point at which to end. From Wright, near ninety, to men two generations younger, some of whom have been mentioned in this chapter, the work of the architects of the western world showed then no convincing evidence of a major and general turn, however surprising in the light of his work of the twenties Le Corbusier’s church at Ronchamp might seem. We stopped in mid-stream and even the Epilogue which follows can provide no true peroration. Fortunately the contemporary history of architecture is being recorded more promptly and completely than ever before in the professional press. It does not seem necessary to footnote this chapter or the Epilogue with references to periodicals when every issue of the principal journals inevitably includes material illustrative of current production throughout the world. Yet when one leaves the world of history for the world of ‘current events’, the time has come to turn from books to periodicals. In the Bibliography there are naturally few ‘monographs’—i.e. books or summary articles—devoted to the men first mentioned in this chapter, since many of them were still at the outset of their careers.[545]

From Papworth’s ‘Cottage Orné’ (Plate 122A) to the slabs of Loughborough Road (Plate 186B)—’model’ dwellings both; from the Bank of England to Thyssen Haus (Plate 191), both housing business as it was never housed before the period with which this book deals; from Baltimore Cathedral (Plate 5) to Notre-Dame-du-Haut (Plate 167), the range of notable achievement recorded in this book is not readily outranked in variety by any other hundred-and-fifty-year period in the history of the western world. As to the absolute quality of that achievement, as distinguished from what may be called the ‘plot’-interest of various relatively coherent developments continuing over the last century and a half, it requires a very catholic taste indeed even to pretend to pronounce. The ‘revivals’ of the nineteenth century and the ‘traditionalism’ of the twentieth century accepted the dangerous challenge of meeting the earlier past on its own ground, and this in itself is enough to reduce the absolute value of most nineteenth- and twentieth-century production. Yet there were renaissances long before there were revivals; and at almost any given moment of the past most production has been the equivalent in stylistic retardation of the traditional architecture of the twentieth century. If one must have originality, these hundred and fifty years have not lacked it, from Ledoux and Soane to Gaudí and Wright. Of the hundreds of names mentioned in these twenty-five chapters there are few doubtless equal to Bramante or to Bernini, but how many were there in the preceding hundred and fifty years? while the variety of approach represented, from a Schinkel to a Le Corbusier, from a Butterfield to a Mies, is hardly to be equalled in any comparable period of history. Above all, this is the stage of architectural history that lies between the unhallowed present and the hallowed past, between the cultural certainties—if they were so certain—of the eighteenth century and the cultural anxieties of the present. What we are we can only hope to understand by exploring the immediate ancestry of our own present. Only revivalists could afford to denigrate and ignore all that lay between them and some ‘golden age’ they sought to emulate. The future must build upon the foundations—so very various, so often nearly contradictory—of the architecture of the last hundred and fifty years.

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EPILOGUE

THE five years since the original edition of this book appeared have seen a building boom throughout the western world such as has rarely been equalled in other post-war periods; nor has this boom been confined to those countries of Europe and the Americas with which this account has chiefly been concerned. These have also been years of continuing—indeed increasing—uncertainty in architectural doctrine. As might have been expected, various tendencies already touched on in the preceding chapter—both positive (although often apparently reactionary) tendencies towards greater individuality, and negative or, at least in the present context, conservative tendencies towards somewhat tired repetition of pre-war clichés—have not only continued but become much stronger. The tonality of the over-all picture of current architectural production has by now definitely changed. That relative balance between what may, at their best, be called the Miesian and the Corbusian, still maintained almost everywhere in the mid fifties, had by the early sixties been upset. In hindsight, for example, it must now seem that such mature and established architects as the Finnish Alvar Aalto and the American Louis Kahn were inadequately treated in previous chapters—not to speak of such still older men whose activity has continued or been renewed as the Germans Hans Scharoun and the late Rudolf Schwarz. Various new names call for attention also: the Dutchman Aldo van Eyck, for example, the Norwegian Sverre Fehn, the Japanese Tange and Maekawa, the Italian Viganò, and the English firm of Stirling & Gowan, to mention but a few that were all but unknown internationally in the mid fifties whose work is now of rising consequence.

For all the evidences of change, it is almost as difficult as it was five years ago to isolate the common denominator of the new tendencies except in negative terms. It is still easier to be explicit about what architects are moving away from—what they are rejecting—than whither they are headed. Any attempt in a few words to describe positively the present architectural climate faces the difficulty that only in certain extreme works are novel architectural ideals and ideas wholly dominant; while by no means all the current building that does _not_ follow in the newer directions, either by older architects such as Mies himself or by those who have stayed faithful to his canons—whether intentionally or by default of any alternative allegiance—can yet be dismissed as merely vulgar, provincial, or _retardataire_.

The rejection of the advanced doctrines of the 1920s and 1930s has rarely been total. The assumption of some writers, moreover, that there has yet been any serious and concerted return to Beaux-Arts or other pre-modern standards is, as regards the attitude of most mature architects—even those who actually have such backgrounds—still something of an exaggeration. On the other hand, the current sensibilities to which architects such as Aalto and Kahn, at least, have been successfully appealing—and in Aalto’s case for some twenty-five years already—are certainly very different from the sensibilities that once responded to the crisp geometries, the smooth surfaces, the glass walls, and the minimal detailing of the Bauhaus (Plate 161A), the Savoye house (Plate 159), and the Barcelona Pavilion (Plate 165A). ‘Neo-Brutalism’, or _brutalismo_, is as dangerous a term to use indiscriminately as any other critical catchword that has been prematurely popularized. But it does suggest, at least by a play upon words in several languages, a current climate of taste which favours _béton brut_—naked concrete—and rough, usually rather dark-coloured, materials. Bricks, pre-cast slabs with a coarse aggregate in relief, or even stone masonry of rubble or quarry-faced granite, with rather heavy trim of raw or varnished wood and wrought iron, are widely preferred to the slicker, more highly finished elements that are the natural product of the increasing industrialization of the building crafts. But this is literally superficial.

Associated with the notable shift of preference as regards the texture of the skin, so to say, of buildings there has been a comparable rise of interest in broken silhouettes, uneven skylines, masses that are articulated rather than unified, and expressive exposure of individual structural elements, themselves often sculptural rather than mechanistic in character. This has affected in varying degree the work of almost all architects from the most Corbusian to the most Miesian. Windows, moreover, tend to be fewer and smaller, and their shapes are very likely to be vertical rather than horizontal, slots instead of ribbons. So also plans now emphasize the particularity of various internal functions and over-all organization tends towards additive compilation of contiguous spatial units, in some cases equal or modular, in others disparate in both size and shape. All this would once have been disapproved by most critics as under-studied, not to say amateurish, before Aalto’s mature work became a major international influence (Plates 173B and 182A). There is surely some reflection of the painting and the sculpture of the past decade, even perhaps of its most advanced music, in the apparent intention to suggest freehand improvisation and randomness in an art whose works, however their designing may have been initiated, are necessarily in the end products of relatively long periods of preparatory study and of complex collaborative execution.

Yet to hazard such statements as these, even though they have long applied to much of the work of Aalto and are now true in varying degree of the production of architects as different in many basic ways as the Frenchman Guillaume Gillet or the Italian Franco Albini, is to be reminded of the prevalence of another kind of interest in more elaborate effects of detail—often denigrated as merely decorative—that is being exploited not only by such well-established architects as the Americans Edward Stone or Minoru Yamasaki, on the one hand, and by the German Egon Eiermann, on the other—otherwise quite opposed as a result of their very different training, experience, and personal dispositions—but by many others from Latin America to Asia and Africa.

Perhaps it may be said in very simple terms that what is widely recognized as the newest architecture has two aspects, one exaggeratedly masculine, the other almost daintily feminine. Both are in some cases to be found illustrated, in a curious kind of rhythmic alternation, by successive works of the same architect; both contrast with the neutral severity of the architecture of the immediately preceding period. Yet both clearly have their half-admitted precedents in the varied and even contradictory work over many decades of Frank Lloyd Wright and that of the Expressionists forty years and more ago.

Even if it could be accepted, for the moment, that these two tendencies represent the whole story, few would be impartial enough to admit that they are _equally_ characteristic of the more serious architectural production of the present. Thanks to a revival of near-Puritanical asceticism in some quarters, sharply contrasting with the readiness in others to beguile with somewhat saccharine ‘beauty’, the more masculine aspect has been presented as superior morally and even as more ‘advanced’; for there are still those ready, as in the 1920s and 1930s, to plead near-Hegelian necessities for one or another direction in which architecture may be moving, necessities that are often in patent opposition to the actual pressures from the aesthetically neutral realm of technology.

But the two aspects so far noted do not, in any case, even suggest the full complexity of the present situation. A third, not necessarily related to the other two yet also, possibly, subsuming both, is more evident to historians than it is to most architects. Admitting the danger of pressing analogies with the morphology of earlier periods—the Gothic, say, or the Renaissance—there is at least a presumption that what we have known as ‘modern architecture’ is (rather prematurely, it must seem) already in a ‘late’ phase. Recurrent in late phases there have usually been two distinguishable but often closely related aspects of academicism: a return towards principles that dominated the arts before the stylistic revolution with which the particular cycle began, on the one hand, and on the other the reduction to an easily applied system of formal elements of the painfully evolved features that were peculiar to the preceding ‘high’ phase.

But reaction, to give this aspect of the current architectural scene an unnecessarily denigratory name, is quite likely in particular instances to be more due to the special circumstances of the current building boom than to any hypothetical life-pattern of modern architecture. In the first half of the twentieth century economic influences were supposed, at least, to favour both technological advance in the building sciences and, concommitantly, ‘advanced’ design in the aesthetic sense. Not always, however, were the theoretical economies actually realized—or not, at any rate, before considerable time had passed—and ‘advanced’ design often proved in practice not only expensive but physically uncomfortable. Then other kinds of technological development, by setting up even more expensive new standards of amenity, notably in such things as vertical transport, glare-control, and air conditioning, were already cancelling out the economies that mechanized methods of large-scale production were eventually making real. At the same time the inherent practical difficulties of such things as all-glass walls and completely open plans were increasingly realized as they were ever more generally and uncritically exploited. By the 1960s some of the technical improvements in building advocated since the 1920s, notably in the field of partial prefabrication and prefabrication of larger and larger components—whole sides of houses and flats, for example—had become widely viable, not to speak of new materials and structural methods that made certain features relatively easy and inexpensive to provide. Yet total prefabrication of dwelling units was remoter from realization—except in mobile units such as caravans—than a quarter of a century earlier, in part because the public’s willingness to accept the results of partial mechanization of house-production seemed actually, in many countries, to have diminished.

The major building problems of the post-war world were not and still are not the production of individual monuments: opera houses, churches, stadia, and the like, on which professional as well as public attention has tended to focus and for which drastically new kinds of architectural expression can most readily be invented. What has been more significant are the large-scale reconstruction of bombed or blighted cities, the rehousing of very considerable segments of the population, and the provision of the manufacturing facilities, the offices, and the stores required by greater industrial, financial, and commercial activity. Inevitably, in a boom period, the very large volume of production over large sectors of the total range of building has led, in such work, to a sort of stasis in stylistic development. A vast amount of architectural energy everywhere must go into the mere carrying out of unprecedentedly extensive plans the major decisions for which were made as many as ten or fifteen years ago. An inertial lag is very evident wherever large urban areas, whether cleared twenty years ago by bombing or in the last few years by schemes of urban renewal, have been or are being rebuilt. Large parts of the world outside North America, moreover, are only now first learning how to build very tall structures and hardly yet ready to modify creatively what they have just learned to do at all.

The last decade, and particularly the last five years, have seen the production of a great part of the urban and suburban settings in which we will probably be living for the rest of this century, and doubtless well into the next. Somewhat as the post-Napoleonic period carried out at an ever lower level of quality the ambitions and aspirations of the revolutionary architects of the later eighteenth century, so in the post-war years—and particularly the last five—there has come about the realization of many urbanistic ideals that once seemed fantastic or Utopian when they were first proposed some forty years ago. Inevitably there has been a diminution of visual interest when certain modes of design, first adumbrated in a few unique individual structures or in relatively modest housing projects in the 1920s by architects of intense conviction and high inventive power, have been applied wholesale, almost as clichés, by countless other men, usually much less able and less dedicated, throughout the whole world. Moreover, serious errors in the original ideals, perhaps only recognizable as those ideals came to large-scale actuality, have been discovered and denounced. To some critics certain earlier urban conditions, against whose vices those ideals were first invoked as correctives, have come to seem, by nostalgia, preferable in various human ways to the ‘brave new world’ of the 1920s which has, to such a surprising extent, become the real world of the 1960s.

But the reaction against the International Style, thus to describe in over-simplified form what seems to be the consensus of many of the changes of attitude in the last years, is by no means as yet a counter-revolution. If the canons of the permissible and the desirable have been broadened by current theory and practice towards various aspects of what may still be called the traditional—including, as by now also traditional, much that was common to various pre- or extra-international Style aspects of earlier modern architecture—certain of the presuppositions of the most advanced architects of the 1920s still seem, though usually in revised form, quite as forward-looking as ever. For the rather limited aspects of function recognized by the Functionalists (if there ever were architects truly meriting that name), for example, far more sophisticated conceptions of function have come to be accepted by most architects whose fields of work are not industrial or commercial.

Yet some engineers—the Italian Nervi, whose practice has become international in scope, the late Spaniard Torroja, the Mexican Candela, the Danish Arup, and the American Fuller, to mention but a few of the best known—have today reputations throughout the architectural profession, and even with the public, which neither the Swiss Maillart nor the lately deceased Frenchman Freyssinet had in their heyday half a century ago. None the less architecture is not more largely in the hands of the engineers today than it was earlier despite many prognoses, both pessimistic and optimistic, that the engineers are, or should be, taking over. Moreover the architectural quality, as distinguished from the technical ingenuity, of the works of the great engineers is often as notable as is that of those buildings by certain architects in which engineering principles are dominant such as Eero Saarinen’s Chantilly airport (Plate 190B).

These paragraphs have necessarily been of the most general nature and critical rather than historical. Properly they should be illustrated by a considerable body of carefully described photographs, plans, and sections such as fortunately can be found in several current books covering either the whole world, or single countries, individual architects, or particular types of building. Some of the most useful of those that had appeared by the summer of 1962 will be found among the additions to the Bibliography. The few plates that it has been possible to add in this new edition cannot hope to present a conspectus of the various aspects of the current situation that have been at least mentioned in this Epilogue. But the plates of the Seagram Building (Plate 192) and the Guggenheim Museum (Plate 188A and B) may serve as a reminder that some of the dichotomies of the third quarter of this century in architecture could, in the late 1950s, be almost as well illustrated in the work of long-recognized masters of architecture as in that of men a generation or more younger. The illustrations of the work of Aalto, work actually of an earlier date, show clearly whence one of the winds of influence has for some time been blowing; while the plate of Japanese buildings (Plate 187) in contrast to the Thyssen Haus (Plate 191), illustrate the international Corbusian and the international Miesian of these last years at levels that are notably high, both in the size and prominence of the structures and, what is more important, in intrinsic quality.

Throughout its length this book has been less concerned with urbanism, with the architectural macrocosm, than with individual buildings; nor, for that matter, can photographs give the feeling of the newly rebuilt central and peripheral areas of our cities even as well as for the nineteenth century. The character of the Ludwigstrasse (Plate 10B) or the Place de l’Opéra (Plate 70C) can be fairly well apprehended from photographs; Park Avenue above the Grand Central Station, as rebuilt beginning with Lever House (Plate 189) in the last decade, or the cities, as distinguished from the individual public monuments, of Chandigarh and Brasilia—or even Cumbernauld in Scotland or Vållingby in Sweden—cannot.

Despite all the confusion of architectural doctrine in the early 1960s, despite the vast areas of undistinguished and even manifestly bad building, these last years have seen their share of new masterworks, or at least of structures which in our present myopic view have already been accepted as such. Yet, on the negative side, several of the older leaders have left us: Wright, Freyssinet, Torroja, Skidmore, Schwarz, and, alas, a few rather younger men as well: Yorke in England, for example, and in America Eero Saarinen.

Saarinen’s work, since the General Motors Technical Institute completed in 1955 and illustrated here (Figure 55; Plate 168B) which was so very Miesian, came by the late 1950s to epitomize the variety, not to say the incoherence, of the ambitions of many architects throughout the world in those years. Happily, after a mature career which lasted only eleven years compared to his father Eliel’s fifty, his contribution to American, indeed to world, architecture, culminated in two works, his colleges at Yale (Plate 185B) and his airport outside Washington (Plate 190B) that in their differing, even apparently opposed, ways express many of the aspirations of our day at as high a level, perhaps, as earlier modern architecture ever reached except in the greatest works of Wright, Le Corbusier, and Mies. But what make Eero Saarinen in retrospect the typical architect of the late fifties and early sixties are, on the one hand, his Miesian beginnings, in sharp reaction to his father’s half-traditional romanticism, and on the other the fact that his _oeuvre_ included many works which in their wilfulness and even, one may say, their frivolity were well below the median standards of serious achievement in those years. Thus he stood, to an extent not always realized in his brief lifetime when the kaleidoscopic diversity of his buildings dazzled those it did not shock, at the centre of his age. His remarkably successful career, remarkable even in a period—so unlike several of the earlier decades of this century—when few architects of quality, even the most ascetic or most fanciful, were wholly without employment, made plain one of the central facts about these last few years: that the style or movement we call ‘modern architecture’ had in many, perhaps in most, countries achieved such total acceptance that clients were willing, almost too willing, to trust their architects in whatever novel direction they might wish to move, in terms of structure, of materials, and of either asceticism or decorative elaboration, not to speak of philosophical content.

Remembering the extraordinary new developments in architecture that were under way in the 1760s two hundred years ago in the period with which the Introduction has dealt, the historian can only end by wondering whether in the welter of innovation of the last few years there lie somewhere the particular seeds from which the architecture of the later twentieth and twenty-first centuries will grow; whether, to use another dubious historical analogy, the stylistic development of this quarter of our century corresponds to the Mannerism of the central decades of the sixteenth century in Italy. May we look forward, towards 2000 perhaps, to some such immanent movement, at once a synthesis of many preceding technical and stylistic innovations and a return to some at least of the principles of the preceding ‘high’ phase, yet above all a vital new creation with a life-expectancy of a hundred years and more, as was the Baroque around 1600? From the latest Baroque Western European architecture turned away two centuries ago; to the Baroque, in any revivalistic sense, it is hardly likely to return. Yet after the ever-increasing divergencies, which have been as characteristic of the mid century as convergence was of twentieth-century architecture down to the 1930s, will we—perhaps before another decade has passed—begin to sense the beginnings of a new synthesis?

Today, the problem must be posed in world terms. So far Eastern Europe, Asia, and Africa have, on the whole, been learners and disciples of the West. Will the countries of Eastern Europe and the new countries of Asia and Africa soon be making contributions towards a new world-style, such as in the last few decades first the North Americans, then the Latin Americans, and now the Japanese have made? Will the history of Western European architecture continue to be the principal story (which thanks to political conditions has been largely true up to the present) or will the Western European tradition, to which this volume has been almost completely devoted, become in the succeeding period somewhat peripheral and even alien to a basically changed situation in which under-developed countries will increasingly, as they come of age, tend to throw off cultural tutelage as they have mostly already thrown off political tutelage?

The Brazilians could design and build in these last years Brasilia by themselves as well, perhaps better than Europeans or North Americans—above all, certainly, the architects of their own Portuguese homeland—could have built it for them. The Indians, on the other hand, have employed Le Corbusier and other Europeans, and the Iraqis have assigned the designing and building of their University to an American firm headed by an architect of German origin. The Japanese, who are in this respect already at the forefront, had employed Wright half a century ago for the Imperial Hotel; today it may perhaps be said that their own best work is superior to the Museum of Modern Art in Tokyo whose designs they obtained from Le Corbusier. Yet current Japanese architecture is not and is not intended to be—witness the foreign-language editions of two of their architectural periodicals—outside the tradition of Western European architecture; indeed, it represents the latest notable contribution to that architecture with which this book has hitherto dealt. It is appropriate, therefore, that the roster of plates in this book, which began with buildings conceived—in effect at least—in Rome and built in France, in England, and even in North America, should end with buildings built in Asia following principles first adumbrated by a Swiss in France. The later eighteenth century turned inward in architecture towards the Rome and the Greece that were at the fountain-head of the Western European tradition; today we should perhaps be turning outward towards the new non-European world which is still in the mid twentieth century, in architecture as in so much else, the child of Europe. Symbolically, at least, the best hope of a new architectural synthesis in the decades to come may lie in this fact; so that later histories of twentieth-century architecture will perhaps give as much attention and space to India or to some of the new African states as little Holland or vast North America have received in this account of the architecture of the last two hundred years.

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NOTES AND BIBLIOGRAPHY

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NOTES

INTRODUCTION - Notes

Footnote 1:

Sigfried Giedion introduced this term in his _Spätbarocker und romantischer Klassizismus_ in 1922 and provided an extended discussion of the concept. Fiske Kimball first used the term in English in his article ‘Romantic Classicism in Architecture’, _Gazette des Beaux-Arts_, XXV (1944), 95-112.

Footnote 2:

See Hautecœur, L., _Rome et la renaissance de l’antiquité à la fin du XVIII^e siècle_, Paris, 1912. However, the deeper background of theory was French, not Roman. Unhappily the brevity with which this whole matter must be treated here, where it is merely prefatory to an account of nineteenth- and twentieth-century architecture, makes it impossible to discuss such French theorists of the early eighteenth century as J.-F. Félibien (1656-1733), A.-L. Cordemoy, and A.-F. Frézier (1682-1773); even Laugier appears somewhat out of context, since he was active not in Rome but in France. Hautecœur in _Histoire de l’architecture classique_, vols III and IV, and Kaufmann in _Architecture in the Age of Reason_—particularly in Chapter XI—elaborate this background of theory in France centring round the _Cours d’architecture ..._, Paris, 1770-7, of J.-F. Blondel (1705-74).

Footnote 3:

See Harris, J., ‘Robert Mylne at the Academy of St Luke’, _Architectural Review_, CXXX (1951), 341-52.

Footnote 4:

Monographs on major architects will be found listed alphabetically by architect in the Bibliography and are not referenced from the text.

Footnote 5:

The changing attitudes towards the Greek Doric order provide a measure of the rise of Romantic Classicism. It is noteworthy that Soufflot was one of the first to make drawings of the very archaic Doric of Paestum, but it never occurred to him to emulate it in his own work. See Pevsner, N., and Lang, S., ‘Apollo or Baboon’, _Architectural Review_, CIV (1948), 271-9.

Footnote 6:

Winckelmann’s major work is the _Geschichte der Kunst des Altertums_, 2 vols, Dresden, 1764.

Footnote 7:

Interest in Egyptian forms can be traced all the way back through the Baroque period to the early Renaissance, but it undoubtedly increased after 1750 and lasted well into the next century. See Pevsner, N., and Lang, S., ‘The Egyptian Revival’, _Architectural Review_, CXIX (1956), 242-54. For a remarkable, rather late (1838-41) example of an ‘Egyptian’ mill, see Bonser, K. J., ‘Marshall’s Mill, Holbeck, Leeds’, _Architectural Review_, CXXVII (1960), 280-2. In the second quarter of the nineteenth century Egyptian forms were most likely to be used, especially in America, for prisons and cemetery accessories.

Footnote 8:

Adam studied, with the assistance of the French _pensionnaire_ C.-L. Clérisseau (1722-1820), the Late Roman ruins of Diocletian’s Palace at Spalatro in 1757, and began his brilliant career in London two years later with the Admiralty Screen in Whitehall. See Adam, R., _Ruins of the Palace of the Emperor Diocletian at Spalatro_, London, 1764, and Fleming, J., _Robert Adam and his Circle_, London, 1962.

Footnote 9:

The present dome is a relatively late emendation; the original crowning feature was much less severe. Soufflot sent a pupil named Roche to London to make measured drawings of St Paul’s in 1776, the year before he prepared this design.

In general, the Panthéon appears much more Romantic Classical today than what Soufflot actually built. The towers which once rose over the corners of the portico—in any case disapproved by Soufflot—were removed by Antoine Quatremère de Quincy (1755-1849) in 1791, and he also filled up the windows that originally cut into the plain wall surfaces. The murals are all of the nineteenth century.

Footnote 10:

Actually many of the spans are much too great to be covered by single stones and the entablatures are really flat arches. There is also considerable use of iron.

Footnote 11:

See Petzet, M., _Soufflot’s Sainte Geneviève und der französische Kirchenbau des 18. Jahrhunderts_, Berlin, 1961.

Footnote 12:

See Rosenau, H., ‘George Dance the Younger’, _Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects_, LIV (1947), 502-7. Even more significant of developing Romantic Classical taste at this point was the character of the designs in Peyre, M.-J., _Livre sur l’architecture_, Paris, 1765.

Footnote 13:

See Rosenau, H. (ed.), _Boullée’s Treatise on Architecture_, London, 1953; and Boullée, E.-L., _Mémoire sur ... la Bibliothèque du Roi ..._, [Paris] 1785.

Footnote 14:

This more classical arrangement was first proposed in the 1760s by Pierre Patte (1723-1814), a theorist in the Blondel tradition, on the analogy of Palladio’s theatre in Vicenza.

Footnote 15:

This is not true, however, of much of his executed work at Arc-et-Senans which has heavily plastic roofs of various shapes.

Footnote 16:

So did Friedrich Gilly in Germany and—according to Kaufmann—Valadier in Italy.

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## CHAPTER 1 - Notes

Footnote 17:

See Steel, H. R., and Yerbury, F. R., _The Old Bank of England_, London, 1930, for photographic coverage of this monument of which the interiors were largely destroyed in the 1920s, and even the exterior considerably—and unnecessarily—modified (see Chapter 24).

Footnote 18:

See Britton, J., _Illustrations of Fonthill Abbey_, London, 1823; Rutter, J., _An Illustrated History and Description of Fonthill Abbey_, Shaftesbury, 1823; and Storer, J., _A Description of Fonthill Abbey_, Wiltshire, London, 1812. The most extensive modern account of the building of Fonthill Abbey is given by Brockman, H. A. N., _The Caliph of Fonthill_, London [1956].

Footnote 19:

See Pevsner, N., ‘The Genesis of the Picturesque’, _Architectural Review_, XCVI (1944), 139-46, and Pevsner, N., ‘Richard Payne Knight’, _Art Bulletin_, XXXI (1949), 293-320.

Footnote 20:

Hussey in _The Picturesque_ lists many of these books and gives good examples of their illustrations.

Footnote 21:

First, that is, in this period. The columnar Monument in the City of London by Robert Hooke, commemorating the Great Fire, dates from the 1670s.

Footnote 22:

See Telford, T., _An Account of the Improvements of the Port of London_, London, 1801. Splendid later examples also survive in Liverpool, built by the Corporation engineer Jesse Hartley (1780-1860); see Waldron, J., ‘Measured Drawings of the Albert Dock Warehouses in Liverpool’, _Architectural History_, IV (1961), 103-16.

Footnote 23:

See Kimball, F., _Thomas Jefferson and the First Monument of the Classic Revival in America_, Harrisburg, 1915.

Footnote 24:

See Kimball, F., ‘The Genesis of the White House’, _Century Magazine_, February 1918.

Footnote 25:

See Brown, G., _History of the United States Capitol_, 2 vols, Washington, 1900-3.

Footnote 26:

See Kimball, F., ‘Origin of the Plan of Washington, D.C.’, _Architectural Review_ (New York), VII (1918), 41-5; and Kite, E., _L’Enfant and Washington_, Baltimore, 1929.

Footnote 27:

See Davison, C. V., ‘Maximilien and Eliza Godefroy’, ‘Maximilien Godefroy’, _Maryland Historical Magazine_, March, September 1934.

Footnote 28:

See Alexander, R. L., ‘The Public Memorial and Godefroy’s Battle Monument’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XVII (1958), 19-24.

Footnote 29:

See Hislop, C., and Larrabee, H. A., ‘Joseph-Jacques Ramée and the Building of North and South College’, _Union College Alumni Monthly_, February 1938.

Footnote 30:

The idea probably originated with Soufflot, who had earlier proposed a similar plan for the cathedral of Rennes.

Footnote 31:

See Blondel, J.-F., _Plan, coupe, et élévations du nouveau marché Saint Germain_, Paris, 1816, and Délespine, P.-J., _Marché des Blancs Manteaux_, Paris, 1827.

Footnote 32:

See Chierici, G., _La Reggia di Caserta_, Rome, 1937; and Mongiello, G., _La Reggia di Caserta_, Caserta, 1954.

Footnote 33:

See Hautecœur, L., _L’Architecture classique à Saint Pétersbourg à la fin du XVIII^e siècle_, Paris, 1912.

Footnote 34:

See Loukomski, G., _Charles Cameron_, London, 1943.

Footnote 35:

See Thomon, T. de, _Recueil des principaux monuments construits à Saint Pétersbourg_, Petersburg, 1806; repeated in his _Traité de peinture_, Paris, 1809; and Loukomski, G., ‘Thomas de Thomon’, _Apollo_, XLII (1945), 297 ff.

Footnote 36:

See Lancere, N., ‘Adrien Zakharov and the Admiralty at Petersburg’ (in Russian), _Starye Gody_, (1911), 3-64.

Footnote 37:

Kaufmann, who illustrates the Belanger project in _Architecture in the Age of Reason_, figure 169, dates it around 1808 on the ground that slaughterhouses first began to be built in Paris in that year. It is extremely unlikely, of course, that Hansen ever saw this project; but the similarity of his tower to Belanger’s indicates how closely he was in tune with his French contemporaries. In any case similar towers are to be found in the projects published by Durand in his _Précis_ of 1802-5, which Hansen must have known (see Chapter 2).

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## CHAPTER 2 - Notes

Footnote 38:

Allais and others, _Projets d’architecture ... qui ont mérités les grands prix_, Paris, 1806, and at different dates subsequently with varying authors and titles. For a collection of earlier projects, see Rosenau, H., ‘The Engravings of the Grand Prix of the French Academy of Architecture’, _Architectural History_, III (1960), 17-180, since the original publication is very rare.

Footnote 39:

Durand was already well known as the compiler of the _Recueil et parallèle des édifices en tout genre, anciens et modernes_, Paris, 1800, a curious work in which the drawings of important buildings of all periods are freely modified to bring them into conformity with the author’s modular theories of proportion. This is conventionally known as ‘Le grand Durand’.

Footnote 40:

Rondelet, J. B., _Traité théorique et pratique de l’art de bâtir_, 4 vols, Paris, 1802-17. There were several later editions. From 1806 Rondelet taught at the École Spéciale d’Architecture, which was shortly afterwards merged with the École Polytechnique.

Footnote 41:

French designs of this period for houses were provided in profusion in the publications of J. C. Krafft. See Krafft, J. C., and Ransonette, N., _Plans, coupes, élévations des plus belles maisons et des hôtels construits à Paris et dans les environs_, Paris [_c._ 1802]; reprint, Paris, 1909; and Krafft, J. C., _Recueil d’architecture civile_, Paris, 1812; later ed., 1829. Krafft, J. C., and Thiollet, F., _Choix des plus jolies maisons de Paris et de ses environs, édifices et monuments publics_, Paris, 1849, may also be mentioned here although very much later. It is significant of the international availability of the earliest work listed here that it was provided with texts in French, English, and German.

Footnote 42:

Klenze, L. von, _Walhalla in artistischer und technischer Beziehung_, Munich, 1842.

Footnote 43:

See Hitchcock, H.-R., _Early Museum Architecture_, Hartford, 1934.

Footnote 44:

Grandjean de Montigny, A.-H.-V., and Famin, A.-P.-Ste-M., _Architecture toscane_, Paris, 1815.

Footnote 45:

See Klenze, L. von, _Anweisung der Architektur des christlichen Kultus_, Munich, 1834.

Footnote 46:

See Möllinger, K., _Elemente des Rundbogenstiles_, 2nd ed., Munich, 1848. It is convenient to retain the German term for this very Germanic round-arched style, even though it flourished in several countries besides Germany (see below in this chapter for Scandinavia, and Chapter 5 for America).

Footnote 47:

See Hübsch, H., _Die altchristlichen Kirchen nach den Baudenkmalen und älteren Beschreibungen_, 2 vols, Karlsruhe, 1862-3.

Footnote 48:

Durand, _Précis_, II, plate 13.

Footnote 49:

See Häberlin, C. L., _Sanssouci, Potsdam und Umgebung_, Berlin and Potsdam, 1855; Poensgen, G., _Die Bauten Friedrich Wilhelms IV in Potsdam_, Potsdam, 1930; Huth, H., _Der Park von Sanssouci_, Berlin, 1929; Kania, H., _Potsdamer Baukunst_, Berlin, 1926; _Potsdam. Staats- und Bürgerbauten_, Berlin, 1939; and Hitchcock, H.-R., ‘Romantic Architecture of Potsdam’, _International Studio_, 99 (1931), 46-9.

Footnote 50:

See Sievers, J., _Das Palais des Prinzen Karl von Preussen_, Berlin, 1928.

Footnote 51:

Notably Séheult, F.-L., _Recueil d’architecture dessiné et mesuré en Italie ... dans 1791-93_, Paris, 1821.

Footnote 52:

See Persius, L., _Architektonische Entwürfe für den Umbau vorhandener Gebäude_, Potsdam, 1849; _Architektonische Ausführungen_, Berlin [1860?]; and Fleetwood Hesketh, R. and P., ‘Ludwig Persius of Potsdam’, _Architects Journal_, LXVIII (1928), 77-87, 113-20.

Footnote 53:

Ettlinger, L., ‘A German Architect’s Visit to England in 1826’, _Architectural Review_, XCVII (1945), 131-4.

Footnote 54:

See Poensgen, G., _Schloss Babelsberg_, Berlin, 1929.

Footnote 55:

See Frölich, M., and Sperlich, H. G., _Georg Moller, Baumeister der Romantik_, Darmstadt, 1959.

Footnote 56:

See Semper, G., _Das königliche Hoftheater zu Dresden_, Brunswick, 1849.

Footnote 57:

Gärtner’s design for the Palace owes a good deal to a project prepared by Klenze for a palace on the Kerameikos hill which was never begun. Fortunately Schinkel’s more ambitious project for a palace on the Akropolis was also not carried out.

The digging away of the ground, which originally sloped up to the Palace above the square, and the introduction in the 1930s of the present retaining wall with the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier have diminished somewhat the effectiveness of the front of the Palace.

Footnote 58:

See Amodeo, A., ‘La Giovinezza di Pietro Nobile’, ‘La Maturità di Pietro Nobile’, _L’Architettura_, I (1955), 49-52; 378-84.

Footnote 59:

See _Thorvaldsens Museum_, Copenhagen, 1953.

Footnote 60:

See Hekker, H. C., ‘De Nederlandse Bouwkunst in het Begin van de Negentiende Eeuw’, _Bulletin van de Kon. Ned. Oudh. Bond_, IV (1951), 1-28.

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## CHAPTER 3 - Notes

Footnote 61:

The idea for the two-towered façade is probably derived from a project of 1809 by Lebas, but could also come from Gisors’s Saint-Vincent in Mâcon of 1810.

Footnote 62:

Three pieces only of the enamelled lava decoration were put in place; owing to the ensuing outcry they were soon removed.

Footnote 63:

Hittorff and other architects of his generation such as Henri Labrouste and Duban, who supported his proposal to revive the external polychromy they had noted on the Classical temples of Sicily, were closer in fact to Ingres than to Delacroix. Ingres in 1828 backed Labrouste’s controversial rendering of the Paestum temples showing external colour. Duban, one of the first to introduce polychrome decoration—the plaques of enamelled lava used in the entrance courtyard of the École des Beaux-Arts are his—was a close friend and on occasion a collaborator of Ingres. Hittorff collected paintings by Ingres and assisted him with the architectural backgrounds of his pictures, though that in the ‘Stratonice’, which gives perhaps the best idea of the sort of polychromy intended by these architects, was supplied by Victor Baltard.

Footnote 64:

Actually the original paintwork on the beams and panels of the vestibules of the Gare du Nord is still there, but so dulled and begrimed that one hardly notices it. To the twentieth century the remarkable roof of Hittorff’s Rotonde des Panoramas in the Champs Élysées of 1836 would be, if extant, of more interest, since it was suspended from iron cables.

Footnote 65:

As has been noted in Chapter 2, both de Chateauneuf and Meuron studied with Leclerc.

Footnote 66:

The history of this project is very complicated. As might be surmised from its character, a design was at one point prepared by Gilbert, the principal Louis Philippe architect for this sort of work. The actual construction of the Hôtel Dieu by Diet followed only after a decade of changes of plan, yet the executed work probably incorporates something of Gilbert’s design; in any case, what was built is still wholly in the spirit of Gilbert’s Louis Philippe work and not at all in that of the Second Empire (see Chapter 8). Diet was Gilbert’s son-in-law.

Footnote 67:

Begun by John Harvey, continued by Thomas Hardwick, and completed by Sir Robert Smirke.

Footnote 68:

See Venditti, A., _Architettura neoclassica a Napoli_, Naples, 1961.

Footnote 69:

See Missirini, M., _Del Tempio eretto in Possagno da Antonio Canova_, Venice, 1833. Some give credit to Selva, but not Bassi his biographer. See also Meeks, C. L. V., ‘Pantheon Paradigm’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XIX (1960), 135-44.

Footnote 70:

See Falconetti, A., _Il Caffè Pedrocchi, dagherrotipo artistico descrittivo_, Padua, 1847; and Cimegotto, C., and others, [Centenary volume on the Caffè Pedrocchi], Padua, 1931.

Footnote 71:

See Montferrand, A.-R. de, _L’Église cathédrale de Saint-Isaac, description architecturale, pittoresque, et historique_, Saint-Pétersbourg, 1845.

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## CHAPTER 4 - Notes

Footnote 72:

Many additions and changes in the house were made from 1816 on; a top storey and a Picture Room of 1825-6 behind No. 14 were the most consequential. See Soane, J., _Description of the House and Museum on the North Side of Lincoln’s Inn Fields_, London, 1832; enl. ed., 1835-6.

Footnote 73:

See Note [17], Chapter 1. The new interiors were built in 1818; the front and side façades were rebuilt in 1823.

Footnote 74:

St Pancras is really based on Gibbs’s St Martin’s-in-the-Fields as regards the exterior; but all the features have, so to say, been translated into the Greek of the Erechtheum. See Inwood, W. and H. W., _St Pancras New Church. Specifications ..._, London, 1819; and Inwood, H. W., The _Erechtheion at Athens_, London, 1827.

Footnote 75:

See Smith, H. C., _Buckingham Palace_, London, 1931.

The palatial character of Cumberland Terrace is due to the fact that it faced the site of an intended summer palace in the Park planned for George IV but never even begun.

Footnote 76:

See Pevsner, N., ‘British Museum 1753-1953’, _Architectural Review_, CXIII (1953), 179-82.

Footnote 77:

See Rolt, L. T. C., _George and Robert Stephenson_, London, 1960.

Footnote 78:

See Fort, M., ‘Francis Goodwin, 1784-1835’, _Architectural History_, I (1958), 61-72.

Footnote 79:

See Whiffen, M., _The Architecture of Sir Charles Barry in Manchester and Neighbourhood_, Manchester, 1950.

Footnote 80:

See Dobson, J. J., _Memoir of John Dobson_, London, 1885.

Footnote 81:

In one sense the Baths of Caracalla provided Elmes’s model, since the size of the great interior there was intentionally exceeded here; in another sense, this was a grandiose development of Wren’s relatively modest interior of St James’s, Piccadilly. Just as Gibbs was translated into Greek by the Inwoods at St Pancras’, Wren was translated into Latin here, but with less precision of vocabulary.

Footnote 82:

See Parker, C., _Villa Rustica_, 3 vols, London, 1832, 1833, 1841; 2nd ed., London, 1848.

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## CHAPTER 5 - Notes

Footnote 83:

When railway stations were needed in Brazil after the mid century they were actually imported, in prefabricated iron, from England.

Footnote 84:

See Haviland, J. _A Description of Haviland’s Design for the New Penitentiary ..._, Philadelphia, 1824; Anon., _A Description of the Eastern Penitentiary ..._, Philadelphia, 1830; Crawford, W., _Report on the Penitentiaries of the United States_, London, 1834; Demetz, F.-A., and Blouet, A.-G., _Rapport sur les penitenciers des États Unis_, Paris, 1837; and Markus, T. A., ‘Pattern of the Law; Bentham’s Panopticon Scheme’, _Architectural Review_, CXVI (1954), 251-6.

Footnote 85:

See Haviland, J., _The Builder’s Assistant_, 3 vols, Philadelphia, 1818-21—the first to include plates of the Greek orders; 2nd ed., Philadelphia, 1830; Benjamin, A., _The American Builder’s Companion_, Boston, 1827 (the first edition is of 1806, but Greek orders were not included until this latest edition); _The Practical House Carpenter_, Boston, 1830, with later editions to 1857; _Practice of Architecture_, New York, 1833, with later editions to 1851; _Elements of Architecture_, Boston, 1843, 2nd ed., 1849; _The Builder’s Guide_, Boston, 1839, with later editions to the Civil War; Lafever, M., _The Young Builder’s General Instructor_, Newark, 1829; _The Modern Builder’s Guide_, New York, 1833, with later editions to 1855; _The Beauties of Modern Architecture_, New York, 1835, with later editions to 1855; _The Architectural Instructor_, New York, 1856; Shaw, E., _Civil Architecture_, Boston, 1830, with later editions to 1855; and Hills, C., _The Builder’s Guide_, Hartford, 1834, with later editions to 1847.

Footnote 86:

See Willard, S., _Plans and Sections of the Obelisk on Bunker’s Hill_, Boston, 1843.

Footnote 87:

See Mills, R., _The American Pharos; or, Lighthouse Guide_, Washington, 1832; and _Waterworks for the Metropolitan City of Washington_, Washington, 1853.

Footnote 88:

See Thayer, R., History, _Organization and Functions of the Office of the Supervising Architect of the Treasury Department_, Washington, 1886; and Strobridge, T. R., ‘Archives of the Supervising Architect—Treasury Department’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XX (1961), 198-9. See also Overby, O., ‘Ammi B. Young in the Connecticut Valley’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XIX (1960), 119-23.

Footnote 89:

See O’Neal, W. B., Jefferson’s _Buildings at the University of Virginia_, I, Charlottesville, 1960. Like the hill-top siting of Monticello, Jefferson’s own nearby house—begun before the American Revolution and finally completed only in 1808—this provision of an open end towards the view illustrates his active response to the ideals of the Picturesque. For Monticello, moreover, drawings of Gothick garden fabricks exist. The fact that McKim, Mead & White blocked the view at the bottom of Jefferson’s layout with a new building in the twentieth century is curious evidence of the lack of understanding of the essential qualities of the architecture and planning of this period on the part of even the most sophisticated ‘traditional’ architects—men who professed the greatest admiration for the work of such predecessors as Jefferson and yet proceeded to destroy its essence whenever the opportunity arose!

Footnote 90:

From the time of Latrobe’s Bank of 1798 the Greek temple paradigm for public buildings characteristically and quite inconsistently included vaulted interiors for protection against fire.

Footnote 91:

In Nicholson, Peter, _The Carpenter’s Guide_, London, 1849. See also Walter, T. U., _Report(s) of the Architect of the Girard College ..._ [Philadelphia, 1834-50].

Footnote 92:

Once more, as with Latrobe and Mills, the importance of Strickland’s work as an engineer should at least be noted. The principal publications of the period in this domain are his _Reports on the Canals, Railways, Roads and other Subjects_, Philadelphia, 1826, and his _Reports, Specifications and Estimates of Public Works in the United States_, London, 1841.

Footnote 93:

The history of the building is so complex that it is difficult to know to whom the credit should be assigned for its distinguished design. The competition held in 1838 was won by Walter, who actually laid the foundations in 1839-40; but the executed design certainly owes more to the competition project of the painter Thomas Cole (1801-48). See Cummings, A. L., ‘The Ohio State Capitol Competition’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XII (1953), 15-18. Modifications of the scheme initiated in 1839-40 were made with Walter’s assistance in 1844, and building was resumed in 1848 under the direction of William Russell West of Cincinnati. On his resignation in 1854 Nathan B. Kelly (1808-71) of Columbus succeeded, and the work was finally brought to a finish by Isaiah Rogers in 1858-61.

Footnote 94:

See Wheildon, W. W., _Memoir of Solomon Willard_, Boston, 1865.

Footnote 95:

Greenough is better known today as the ‘herald of functionalism’ than as a sculptor. See Wynne, N., and Newhall B., ‘Horatio Greenough: Herald of Functionalism’, _Magazine of Art_, XXII (1939), 12-15. For his theories, see Greenough, H., _Aesthetics at Washington_, Washington, 1851; _Travels, Observations, and Experience of a Yankee Stone-cutter_, New York, 1852; and _Form and Function: Remarks on Art_ (H. A. Small, ed.), Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1947.

Footnote 96:

There are measured drawings of these commercial buildings in Hitchcock, H.-R., _Guide to Boston Architecture_, New York, 1954.

Footnote 97:

The most thorough study of American industrial building of this period, including the housing of operatives, is Coolidge, J. P., _Mill and Mansion_, New York, 1942, which deals with Lowell, Mass. Considerable Rhode Island work is illustrated in Hitchcock, H.-R., _Rhode Island Architecture_, Providence, R.I., 1939.

Footnote 98:

See Eliot, W. H., _A Description of the Tremont House_, Boston, 1830.

Footnote 99:

Davis intended to include a central domed space on the model of Latrobe’s Bank of 1798. This was omitted when the design of the interior was revised by Samuel Thomson or William Ross and executed by John Frazee. See Torres, L., ‘Samuel Thomson and the Old Custom House’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XX (1961), 185-90.

Footnote 100:

See Schuyler, M., ‘A Great American Architect; Leopold Eidlitz’, _Architectural Record_, XXIV, 163-79, 277-92, 364-78, and, for a more general treatment, Meeks, C. L. V., ‘Romanesque before Richardson in the United States’, _Art Bulletin_, XXXV (1953), 17-33.

Footnote 101:

See Stone, E. M., _The Architect and Monetarian: a Brief Memoir of Thomas Alexander Tefft_, Providence, R.I., 1869, and Wriston, B., ‘Architecture of Thomas Tefft’, _Rhode Island School of Design Bulletin_, XVIII (1940), 37-45.

Footnote 102:

See Meeks, C. L. V., ‘Henry Austin and the Italian Villa’, _Art Bulletin_, XXX (1948), 145 ff.

Footnote 103:

See Smith, R. C., _John Notman and the Atheneum Building_, Philadelphia, 1951.

Footnote 104:

See Young, A. B., _New Custom House_, Boston, Boston, 1840. The tower that now replaces the dome was built by Peabody & Stearns in 1913-15; it was the first real skyscraper in Boston.

Footnote 105:

See Young, A. B., _Plans of Public Buildings in Course of Construction under the Direction of the Secretary of the Treasury_, [Washington] 1855-6.

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## CHAPTER 6 - Notes

Footnote 106:

Hussey devotes only a portion of his book to the Picturesque in architecture. See also Pevsner, N., ‘The Picturesque in Architecture’, _Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects_, LV (1947), 55-61. C. L. V. Meeks in ‘Picturesque Eclecticism’, _Art Bulletin_, XXXII (1950), 226-35, extends the range of the Picturesque to include considerably more of nineteenth-century architecture than is usual. As with ‘Romantic’ or ‘Classical’, it makes a difference whether or not one uses a capital; with a capital it seems best to restrict the term Picturesque to the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, although the point of view lasted down into the fifties, and it is also possible to recognize a sort of ‘Neo-Picturesque’ in the seventies and eighties (see Chapters 12 and 13 particularly).

Footnote 107:

See Note [19], Chapter 1.

Footnote 108:

Thomas Hopper was even more addicted to the ‘Neo-Norman’, as Gosford Castle in Ireland, begun in 1819, and the rather late Penrhyn Castle of 1827-37 near Bangor in Wales, all built of Mona marble and with a keep copied from that of twelfth-century Hedingham Castle in Essex, splendidly illustrate. See Fedden, R. R., ‘Thomas Hopper and the Norman Revival’, in _Studies in Architectural History_, II (1956).

Footnote 109:

See Musgrave, C., _Royal Pavilion; a Study in the Romantic_, Brighton, 1951; and Roberts, H. D., _A History of the Royal Pavilion, Brighton_, London, 1939.

Footnote 110:

See Stroud, D., _Henry Holland_, London, 1950.

Footnote 111:

Repton’s scheme was much less eclectic than Nash’s, being entirely based, like Sezincote, on the Daniells’ book on India (see Chapter 1).

Footnote 112:

See Dale, A., _Fashionable Brighton, 1820-1860_, London, 1947; and _History and Architecture of Brighton_, Brighton, 1950.

Footnote 113:

The work was begun in 1818 and continued down into the thirties. See Thompson, Francis, _A History of Chatsworth_, London, 1949.

Footnote 114:

See Clark, E., _The Britannia and Conway Tubular Bridges_, 2 vols and album, London, 1850.

Footnote 115:

This was begun only in 1837 and completed, without the elaborate Egyptian decoration that Brunel originally intended, by W. H. Barlow (1812-1902) in 1864.

Footnote 116:

See Donner, P., ‘Edensor, or Brown come True’, _Architectural Review_, XCV (1944), 39-43; and Chadwick’s _The Works of Sir Joseph Paxton_, 162-5, which gives primary credit to Paxton.

Footnote 117:

See Loudon, J. C., _Encyclopaedia of Cottage, Farm and Villa Architecture and Furniture_, London, 1833; 2nd ed. with Supplement, 1842. This is the culminating anthology of the Picturesque, summarizing and all but concluding some forty years of Cottage and Villa Book production in England.

Footnote 118:

In addition to the treatises of C. L. Eastlake, Sir Kenneth Clark, Basil F. L. Clarke, and Marcus Whiffen listed in the Bibliography, see Kamphausen, A., _Gotik ohne Gott: ein Beitrag zur Deutung der Neugotik und des 19. Jahrhunderts_, Tübingen, 1952.

Footnote 119:

See Britton, J., _The Architectural Antiquities of Great Britain_, 5 vols, London, 1804-14; _Cathedral Antiquities of Great Britain_, 14 parts, 1814-35; etc.

Footnote 120:

See Pugin, A. C., and Willson, E. J., _Specimens of Gothic Architecture_, 2 vols, London [1821]; _Examples of Gothic Architecture_, London, 1831. Two more volumes of the _Examples_ were published by A. W. N. Pugin after his father’s death.

Footnote 121:

See Rickman, T., _An Attempt to Discriminate the Styles of English Architecture_, London [1817]; many later editions. The terms Rickman introduced here—Early English, Decorated, and Perpendicular—for the successive phases of the English Gothic are still in general use. For Rickman’s use of iron in his early churches in Liverpool, see Chapter 7.

Footnote 122:

See Whiffen, M., ‘Rickman and Cambridge’, _Architectural Review_, XCVIII (1945), 160-3.

Footnote 123:

Pugin’s really important books concerning architecture were three: _Contrasts, or a Parallel between the Architecture of the 15th and 19th Centuries_, London, 1836; _The True Principles of Pointed or Christian Architecture_, London, 1841; and _An Apology for the Revival of Christian Architecture in England_, London, 1843. All of these have later editions which sometimes show significant omissions and additions.

Footnote 124:

Founded at Cambridge University in 1839 and later known as the Ecclesiological Society. The Society’s periodical, _The Ecclesiologist_, which began to appear in 1841, together with their other publications, had a notable influence on architectural development in England and English-speaking countries in the forties and fifties and even later. See White, J. F., _The Cambridge Movement_, Cambridge, 1962.

Footnote 125:

See Bonnar, T., _Biographical Sketch of G. Meikle Kemp_, Edinburgh and London, 1892.

Footnote 126:

The palace-planning of one Durand pupil, Klenze, behind the regular façade of his Königsbau in Munich is actually very unsymmetrical and episodic, as Giedion points out in his _Spätbarocker und romantischer Klassizismus_.

Footnote 127:

See Summerson, J., ‘Pugin at Ramsgate’, _Architectural Review_, CIII (1948), 163-6.

Footnote 128:

An influential publication of this period was Hopkins, J., _Essay on Gothic Architecture_, Burlington, 1836. Bishop Hopkins himself designed and built several churches of the rather feeble Gothick order of the plates in this book.

Footnote 129:

See Upjohn, R., _Upjohn’s Rural Architecture_, New York, 1852.

Footnote 130:

See Wills, F., _Ancient English Ecclesiastical Architecture ..._, New York, 1850, which includes designs for new churches. Similar is Hart, J., _Designs for Parish Churches in the Three Styles of English Church Architecture_, New York, 1857.

Footnote 131:

Downing’s major work, _A Treatise on the Theory and Practice of Landscape Gardening adapted to North America_, New York and London, 1841, with later editions to 1879 (and twentieth-century reprints), devotes only a chapter to house design. His really influential architectural books were _Cottage Residences_, New York, 1842, with later editions to 1887, and _The Architecture of Country Houses_, New York, 1850, with later editions to 1866.

Footnote 132:

See Scully, V. J., ‘Romantic Rationalism and the Expression of Structure in Wood: Downing, Wheeler, Gardner and the “Stick Style”, 1840-1876’, _Art Bulletin_, XXXV (1953), 121-42.

Footnote 133:

See Robinson, P. F., _Rural Architecture_, London, 1822, with later editions to 1836, and also his _Designs for Ornamental Villas_, London, 1827, again with later editions to 1836.

Footnote 134:

The handsomest and one of the most authoritative mid-century books on chalets was by Graffenried and Sturler, _Architecture suisse_, Berne, 1844.

Footnote 135:

See Vaux, C., _Villas and Cottages_, New York, 1857, with later editions to 1874.

Footnote 136:

See Lancaster, C., ‘Oriental Forms in American Architecture’, _Art Bulletin_, XXIX (1947), 183-93. For other work of Samuel Sloan, a very productive mid-century architect and architectural writer, see Coolidge, H. N., ‘A Sloan Checklist, 1849-1884’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XIX (1960), 34-8.

Footnote 137:

See Owen, R. D., _Hints on Public Architecture_, New York, 1849.

Footnote 138:

Of the _Seven Lamps_, of the first volume of the _Stones of Venice_, and of the _Lectures on Architecture and Painting_, American editions appeared respectively in 1849, 1851, and 1854, the same years as the original London editions, and were succeeded by new issues and new editions at a pace far exceeding that maintained by the original publishers in England. In part this may merely mean that the American editions, all pirated, were smaller; but it is certainly evidence of an avid and extensive body of American readers from the mid century down to 1900.

Footnote 139:

See Chenesseau, G., _Sainte-Croix d’Orléans; histoire d’une cathédrale gothique réedifiée par les Bourbons, 1599-1829_, 3 vols, Paris, 1921.

The design of 1707 for the façade was by Robert de Cotte, J.-H. Mansart’s principal lieutenant. The work was carried on more actively by A.-J. Gabriel under Louis XV. With the Restoration in 1816 Louis XVIII took up the completion of the project—which Napoleon had actually ordered before Waterloo—as part of the general preoccupation of the Restoration with a strengthening of the Church, and Charles X opened the finished church in 1829. Thus the renewal of activity here in the second decade of the nineteenth century precedes the other Neo-Gothic work described below by some twenty years. But credit—or discredit—for its Rococo-Gothic character belongs to the eighteenth not to the nineteenth century.

Footnote 140:

See Rotrou, E. de, _Dreux, ses antiquités, Chapelle St Louis_, Dreux, 1864.

Footnote 141:

The aesthetic climate of the period is presented in several books: Rosenthal, L., _L’Art et les artistes romantiques_, Paris, 1928; Robiquet, J., _L’Art et le goût sous la Restauration_, Paris, 1928; Schommer, P., _L’Art décoratif au temps du Romantisme_, Paris, 1928. These were published in advance of the ‘Centenaire du Romantisme’ in 1930.

Footnote 142:

See Thiénon, C., _Voyage pittoresque dans le Bocage de la Vendée, ou vues de Clisson et ses environs_, Paris, 1817.

Footnote 143:

In 1836 Viollet-le-Duc wrote to his father that every greengrocer had a small Italian Villa with a tower, but this is patently a rhetorical exaggeration.

Footnote 144:

See Kaufmann, E., _Three Revolutionary Architects, Boullée, Ledoux and Lequeu_, Philadelphia, 1952.

Footnote 145:

See Heideloff, K., _Nürnberg’s Baudenkmale der Vorzeit_, Nuremberg, 1839; and _Die Kunst des Mittelalters in Schwaben_, Stuttgart, 1855. His _Ornaments of the Middle Ages_ (to give it its English title), which began to appear in Nuremberg in 1838, had several editions with French and English text.

Footnote 146:

This is least true in France, where the Neo-Catholic intellectuals were Gothic enthusiasts and succeeded in imposing Gothic on the architects, few of whom ever took to it with whole-hearted enthusiasm. Even Viollet-le-Duc, after the forties, was confusedly eclectic in most of his newly designed buildings as distinguished from his ‘restorations’ and his completions of unfinished medieval monuments (see Chapter 11).

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## CHAPTER 7 - Notes

Footnote 147:

See Sheppard, R., _Cast Iron in Building_, London, 1945, and Gloag, J. and Bridgwater, D., _A History of Cast Iron in Building_, London, 1948. These accounts require considerable revision in the light of later research by T. C. Bannister and by A. W. Skempton. See Note [151], _infra_, and for further illustrations, ‘The Iron Pioneers’, _Architectural Review_, CXXX (1961), 14-19, and Richards, J. M., _The Functional Tradition in Early Industrial Buildings_, London, 1958.

Footnote 148:

Problems of fire-resistance were already under discussion in England in the forties. The London Fire Department even refused to enter burning buildings with internal skeletons of iron because of the danger of their collapse; while the effectiveness of fireproofing iron columns with masonry sheathing was already being tested in 1846. I owe this information, as well as that on many other significant points in this chapter, to Turpin C. Bannister.

Footnote 149:

See Harris, J., ‘Cast Iron Columns 1706’, _Architectural Review_, CXXX (1961), 60-1.

Footnote 150:

See Raistrick, A., _Dynasty of Ironfounders_, London, [1953].

Footnote 151:

See Giedion, S., _Bauen in Frankreich: Eisen, Eisenbeton_, Leipzig, 1928, an account which its own author and others have considerably emended since.

Footnote 152:

This was replaced a quarter of a century later when a new stair-hall was built by Percier & Fontaine.

Footnote 153:

See Bannister, T. C., ‘The First Iron-Framed Buildings’, _Architectural Review_, CVII (1950), 231-46; Skempton, A. W., and Johnson, H. R., ‘The First Iron Frames’, _Architectural Review_, CXXXI (1962), 175-86. In 1803-4 came two more iron-framed mills, the North Mill at Belper and one at Leeds.

Footnote 154:

See Fairbairn, W., _On the Application of Cast and Wrought Iron to Building Purposes_, London, 1854.

Footnote 155:

See Buckler, J. and J. C., _Views of Eaton Hall_, London, 1826.

Footnote 156:

See Mock, E., _The Architecture of Bridges_, New York, 1949; Whitney, C., _Bridges; a Study in their Art, Science and Evolution_, New York, 1929; De Maré, E., _The Bridges of Britain_, London, 1954; Andrews, C., ‘Early Iron Bridges of the British Isles’, _Architectural Review_, LXXX (1936), 63-8; and ‘Early Victorian Bridges in Suspension in the British Isles’, _Architectural Review_, LXXX (1936), 109-12; and Mehrtens, G., _Der deutsche Brückenbau in XIX Jahrhundert_, Berlin, 1900.

Footnote 157:

In addition to Telford’s own superbly illustrated autobiography and the two modern monographs, see Sutherland, R. J. M., ‘Telford’, _Architectural Review_, CXIV (1953), 389-94.

Footnote 158:

The American James Finley built an iron-chain suspension bridge as early as 1801 and patented the system in 1808 after he had built several more. See Pope, T., _Treatise on Bridge Architecture_, New York, 1811, which was probably known to Telford.

Footnote 159:

These early French bridges—and several important early English ones too—are illustrated in later editions of Rondelet’s _Traité_ (See Note [40], Chapter 2), and in Bruyère, L., _Études relatives à l’art des constructions_, Paris, 1823. Delon’s name is also given as Dilon and Dillon.

Footnote 160:

See Séguin, M., _Des ponts en fil de fer_, Paris, 1824.

Footnote 161:

See Ellet, C., _The Wheeling Bridge_ [Philadelphia, 1852]. For this bridge Roebling provided the cables but not the design.

Footnote 162:

Sec Conant, W., _The Brooklyn Bridge_, New York [1883].

Footnote 163:

Hautecœur lists nearly forty built before 1848 in Paris alone. For the Galerie d’Orléans, see Fontaine, C., _Histoire du Palais Royal_, Paris, 1834.

Footnote 164:

Thiollet, F., _Serrurerie de fonte et de fer récemment exécutés_, Paris, 1832, illustrates several examples.

Footnote 165:

See Pevsner, N., ‘Early Iron: Curvilinear Hothouses’, _Architectural Review_, CVI (1949), 188-9.

Footnote 166:

Sec Meeks, C. L. V., ‘The Life of a Form: A History of the Train Shed’, _Architectural Review_, CX (1951), 163-74, and his book _The Railroad Station_, New Haven, 1956.

Footnote 167:

See Arschavir, A. A., ‘The Inception of the English Railway Station’, _Architectural History_, IV (1961), 63-76, for the story before Crown Street.

Footnote 168:

See Clark, E., _The Britannia and Conway Tubular Bridges_, 2 vols and atlas, London, 1850.

Footnote 169:

See Hitchcock, H.-R., ‘The Coal Exchange’, _Architectural Review_, CI (1947), 185-7.

Footnote 170:

See Bannister, T. C., ‘The Genealogy of the Dome of the United States Capitol’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, VII (1948), 1-16.

Footnote 171:

Bogardus’s priority in this matter is by no means absolute. Certainly earlier in America was the Miners’ Bank, built by Haviland in Pottsville, Penna., in 1829-30; but here cast iron was used only to provide a decorative sheathing of the brick walls in the absence of available stone. Also earlier was a steam flour-mill three storeys high prefabricated by Sir William Fairbairn in London in 1839 and sent to Turkey, where it was erected in Istanbul in 1840. This was more like Bogardus’s building, and he had probably actually seen it when it was exhibited in London in Fairbairn’s shops at Millwall before being disassembled and shipped away. Daniel D. Badger (1806-?) also claimed priority because of the many one-storey shops he had built of iron, one of which was just across Center Street in New York from Bogardus’s factory. But Bogardus deserved the publicity he received at home and abroad; undoubtedly it was his activity which really started the general vogue of cast-iron fronts in the United States. See Bogardus, J., _Cast Iron Buildings: their Construction and Advantages_, New York, 1856 (written for Bogardus by a friendly ‘ghost’, John W. Thomson), and Bannister, T. C., ‘Bogardus Revisited, Part One: The Iron Fronts’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XV (1956), 12-22.

Footnote 172:

See Sturges, W. K., ‘Cast Iron in New York’, _Architectural Review_, CXIV (1953), 233-8.

Footnote 173:

See Hitchcock, H.-R., ‘Early Cast Iron Façades’, _Architectural Review_, CIX (1951), 113-16.

Footnote 174:

See Hitchcock, H.-R., _The Crystal Palace ..._, 2nd ed., Northampton, Mass., 1952.

Footnote 175:

See Carstensen, G., _The New York Crystal Palace_, New York, 1854.

Footnote 176:

The date of this is often given as 1855, when Labrouste took charge of the work at the Bibliothèque Nationale, and the original project for it may well be more nearly contemporaneous with the Reading Room of the British Museum.

Footnote 177:

Six pavilions were built first and four more before 1870; the remaining two were not erected until the 1930s. See Baltard, V., and Callet, F., _Monographie des Halles centrales de Paris construites sous le régne de Napolèon III_, Paris, 1865.

Footnote 178:

Technically the architect of Saint-Eugène in Paris was L.-A. Lusson, and in his monograph on the church, _Plans, coupes, elevations, et details de l’église ... de Saint Eugène_, Paris, 1855, he does not even mention Boileau’s name. However, the credit—or, to many contemporaries, the discredit—for the character of the cast-iron Gothic interior of the Paris church has always been given to Boileau.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 8 - Notes

Footnote 179:

A notably extreme early example is Visconti’s Fontaine Molière of 1841-4 in the Rue de Richelieu in Paris.

Footnote 180:

Here Visconti’s taste also proves to have been premonitory. His project of 1833 for a library already had a bulbous roof over the central pavilion; while that of 1849 for the Bibliothèque Nationale in the Rue de Richelieu had bold engaged orders on the central pavilion and a tall straight-sided mansard as well.

Footnote 181:

See Hitchcock, H.-R., ‘Second Empire “avant la lettre”’, _Gazette des Beaux Arts_, XIII (1953), 115-30. The existence of French analogues in the forties was insufficiently stressed there, however.

Footnote 182:

See Kramer, E. W., ‘Detlef Lienau, an Architect of the Brown Decades’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XIV (1955), 18-25. Lienau was born in Schleswig-Holstein, then Danish, but received his early education in Germany. For a still earlier mansard than Lienau’s, see Dallett, J. F. ‘John Notman’s Mansard, 1848’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XIX (1960), 81.

Footnote 183:

See Aulanier, C., _Le Nouveau Louvre de Napoleon III_, Paris [1953], and Hautecoeur, L. _Histoire du Louvre_, Paris [n.d.]

Footnote 184:

See Pinkney, D. H., _Napoleon III and the Rebuilding of Paris_, Princeton, N.J., 1958. Work began on the extension of the Rue de Rivoli in 1851; but it was only in 1853 that the Emperor found in G.-E. Haussmann (1809-91), whom he made Prefect of the Seine and later a baron, an adequate collaborator and executant for his tremendous urbanistic programme.

Footnote 185:

A tour which can be taken vicariously is provided in a splendid set of lithographs of the period, _Paris dans sa splendeur_; from this Plates 19 and 55B are taken.

Footnote 186:

The degree of control exercised by public authority over the façades varied. For the extension of the Rue de Rivoli, continuation of Percier & Fontaine’s original design was required; and for the Place de l’Étoile and the Place de l’Opéra comprehensive designs established in advance were enforced (see below). Elsewhere only the height of the cornice line and the silhouette of the mansard were ordinarily standardized by regulation.

Footnote 187:

Built in 1855 as the Hôtel des Chemins de Fer, but now the Hôtel du Louvre, and the work of Hittorff, Rohault de Fleury, Armand, and Pellechet. Hittorff and Rohault were also collaborating on the houses surrounding the Place de l’Étoile at this time. T. L. Donaldson, reporting on the new hotel at the Royal Institute of British Architects on 22 June 1855, remarked: ‘The roof plays an important

## part in the design ... much of the majesty of French buildings is

derived from these lofty roofs.’ Donaldson supervised the erection of the Hope house, and had thus played a personal part in the introduction of the French mansard into England six years earlier.

Footnote 188:

It is curious that there should be uncertainty about the authorship of a complex so central to the building activity of its era. The Grand Hotel which occupies the corner of the Boulevard des Italiens to the left of the Opéra was by the team responsible for the Hôtel des Chemins de Fer at the other end of the avenue (see Note [187]). Pinkney in _Napoleon III and the Rebuilding of Paris_, the latest to discuss the subject, gives credit for all the façades around the Place de l’Opéra to Rohault; Hautecoeur assigns the rounded pavilions opposite the front of the Opéra to Blondel and mentions no other architect. Whoever was responsible, Garnier felt they were much too tall and confining for his Opéra.

Footnote 189:

See Garnier, J.-L.-C., _Le nouvel Opéra de Paris_, 2 vols text and 6 vols plates, Paris, 1875-81.

Footnote 190:

By this time Viollet-le-Duc was far more ‘Victorian’ than Garnier, yet his secular work had become so eclectic and even original in detail as hardly any longer to be Neo-Gothic at all (see Chapter 11.

Footnote 191:

See Daly, C., and Davioud, G.-J.-A., _Les théâtres de la Place du Châtelet_, Paris, 1860.

Footnote 192:

See _Notice du Palais de Longchamps à Marseille_, Marseilles, 1872.

Footnote 193:

See Daly, C., _L’Architecture privée au XIX^e siècle ... sous Napoléon III; nouvelles maisons de Paris et des environs_, 3 vols, Paris, 1864; Calliat, V., _Parallèle des nouvelles maisons de Paris_, vol. II, Paris, 1864; Adam, Leveil, and LeBlanc, _Recueil des maisons les plus remarquables_, Paris, 1858; and _Maisons les plus remarquables de Paris_, Paris, 1870. César Daly, as editor of the _Revue de l’architecture_, also determined the character of the material that periodical offered in this period.

Footnote 194:

It is awkward that the long career of Viollet-le-Duc, like that of Semper, does not fall largely within any single chapter of this book.

## Active from the forties until the seventies, leading restorer of

medieval monuments of his age in France, leading medieval archaeologist of Europe, controversial reformer of French architectural education (at least _in posse_), author of influential critical books, he was the inspirer—by his writings rather than his executed work—of a later generation of architectural innovators abroad perhaps even more notably than at home. His failure to conform to the normal pattern of architectural life that usually confines a

## particular man’s significant activity within some one phase of

architectural development—such as, on the whole, each chapter of this

## book deals with—makes it necessary to present his career in piecemeal

fashion. It is partly covered in Chapter 6, with a few further mentions in this chapter, and—more significantly—in Chapter 11 in this Part and Chapter 16 at the beginning of Part Three. It is worth noting that Viollet-le-Duc is the only architect who enters this book in each of its three parts, even though it is only as an influence, not an executant, that he comes into the last part.

Footnote 195:

And some contemporaries were ready to say Sicilian! It was started—or at least commissioned—some years before the first volume of the great treatise on Syrian architecture appeared: Vogüé, C.-J.-M. de, _Syrie Centrale_, 2 vols, Paris, 1865-77. But Vaudremer must have seen the drawings of Kalat Seman published by Duthuit in the _Gazette des architectes et du bâtiment_, 1864, No. 7, 79.

Footnote 196:

See Daumet, H., _Notice sur M. Abadie_, Paris, 1886. It is relevant that Abadie became Diocesan Architect of Périgueux in 1874, the same year he began the Sacré-Cœur, the competition for which he had won two years earlier.

Footnote 197:

For characteristic French prize projects that were admired and emulated abroad, see _Les grands prix de Rome d’architecture de 1850-1900_, Paris [n.d.]

Footnote 198:

For the Massachusetts institution, see Ware, W. R., _An Outline of a Course of Architectural Instruction_, Boston, 1866; for Columbia, see _idem_, ‘The Instruction in Architecture at the School of Mines’, _School of Mines Quarterly_, X (1888), 28-43.

Footnote 199:

Yet one of the boldest modern architects of Latin America, Carlos Raúl Villanueva (b. 1900) of Venezuela, was educated at the École des Beaux-Arts itself; and most of the other modern architects in these countries—those over forty at least—were trained in the local Escuelas de Bellas Artes based on the Paris original.

Footnote 200:

The most conspicuous exception, dominating the whole city, is the Mole Antonelliana. This extraordinary edifice, begun by Alessandro Antonelli (1798-1880) in 1863, more than rivals his very tall earlier dome on San Gaudenzio in Novara, designed in 1840. Never really completed, the construction of the Mole continued intermittently down to Antonelli’s death. By its great height and in some of the technicalities of its construction it rivals the Eiffel Tower and the early American skyscrapers which are posterior to it by several decades. Yet Antonelli arrived at no coherent expression of his structural innovations and, to judge from the successive purposes for which the structure has been intended to serve or has served, no real capacity to provide a functionally viable building. On the whole, as its present name implies, this is a monument chiefly to its designer’s megalomania.

Footnote 201:

See Reed, H. H., ‘Rome: The Third Sack’, _Architectural Review_, CVII (1950), 91-110.

Footnote 202:

The third prominent edifice, surprisingly enough, is High Victorian Gothic. St Paul’s, the American church, is by the English architect G. E. Street, and its curious relation to the characteristic academic blocks by Koch and his contemporaries can be appreciated on Plate 100 (see Chapter 11).

Footnote 203:

See Acciaresi, P., _Giuseppe Sacconi e l’opera sua massima_, Rome, 1911.

Footnote 204:

The best-maintained later equivalent in northern Europe is probably the Passage, as it is called, in The Hague. Built in 1882-5, this hardly rivals the Galleria Mazzini in Genoa in length and breadth, much less Mengoni’s. There are many other examples, some of them considerably later, but few are in good condition today, and none have the scale of the three principal Italian examples. For earlier French examples, see Chapter 3.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 9 - Notes

Footnote 205:

See Kreisel, H., _The Castles of Ludwig II of Bavaria_, Darmstadt [n.d.] and _Schloss Linderhof_, Munich, 1959.

Footnote 206:

The design derives from the results of a competition held in 1876. Of the nine architects involved in the execution of the building, Grotjan, Lamprecht, Robertson, and Martin Haller (1835-1925) had won prizes in the competition. The tower is attributed specifically to the last and sometimes, more loosely, the whole structure.

Footnote 207:

It should be pointed out that tall mansards allowed the addition of a full storey—sometimes even two—without increasing the height of the masonry work of the façade itself; thus there were reasons of economy as well as of fashion for their spread at this time (see Chapter 14).

Footnote 208:

For that matter the London Ritz Hotel, built in 1905-6 by Mewès & Davis, is capped with a high mansard, although the vocabulary of their façades is a discreet and academic, if overscaled, _style Louis XVI_ and the construction—reputedly—the first example of the use of a steel skeleton of the American skyscraper type in England.

Footnote 209:

Thomas Cundy II (1790-1867) died in this year; if provided by the Estate Architects’ office, the designs were either initiated before his death or else they were entirely by his assistants, perhaps directed by his surviving brother Joseph (1795-1875). A. T. Bolton believed that the responsibility for the design lay with the builder Trollope; the Grosvenor Estate office, however, names not Trollope but the Cubitt firm as the builders. As with the Place de l’Opéra, the credit—or discredit—for this most notable and conspicuous piece of Second Empire urbanism remains rather uncertain.

Footnote 210:

See, however, Castermans, A., _Parallèle des maisons de Bruxelles_, Paris, 1856, which illustrates much work that is not at all Parisian.

Footnote 211:

See Poelaert, J., _Le Nouveau Palais de Justice de Bruxelles_, Brussels, 1904.

Footnote 212:

Semper was in England for several years after he left Dresden as a result of the revolution that also led to Wagner’s expulsion in 1848. He did no building in England, but was closely associated with Cole and his Department of Practical Art. The catafalque of the Duke of Wellington, used at the State funeral in 1852, was of his design. His Swiss period was followed by a triumphant return to Dresden to rebuild the opera-house there and his final settlement in Vienna in 1871. Since this relatively important architect appears, like Viollet-le-Duc, in unrelated contexts in several different chapters of this book, it seems well to recall here the total range of his career from its beginnings in Hamburg in the forties to its conclusion in Vienna in the seventies, passing by Dresden, London, Zurich, and Dresden a second time.

Footnote 213:

See Burnham, A., ‘The New York Architecture of Richard M. Hunt’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XI (1952), 9-14.

Footnote 214:

Of course Daly’s _Revue de l’architecture_ reached some American architects and also his _Architecture privée_ (see Note [194], Chapter 8). See also Liénard, M., _Specimens of the Decoration and Ornamentation of the XIXth Century_, Boston, 1875, although by that date the vogue for such Second Empire detailing was all but over.

Footnote 215:

See Walter, T. U., _Letter to the Committee on Public Buildings, in reference to an Enlargement of the Capitol_ [Washington, 1850], and _Report of the Architect of the United States Capitol and the New Dome_, Washington, 1864.

Footnote 216:

See McKenna, R. T., ‘James Renwick, Jr, and the Second Empire Style in the United States’, _Magazine of Art_, XLIV (1951), 97-101.

Footnote 217:

See Boston. Committee on Public Buildings, _The City Hall, Boston_, Boston, 1866. A considerably larger early project of 1861 emulates much more closely the new Louvre.

Footnote 218:

See Bunting, B., ‘The Plan of the Back Bay Area in Boston’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XIII (1954), 19-24.

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## CHAPTER 10 - Notes

Footnote 219:

Despite the ‘correctness’ of Butterfield’s detailing, an idiosyncratic coarsening can be noted at St Augustine’s College in Canterbury and in other work by him done several years before All Saints’; yet, by contrast to other aspects of his mature style, his moulded detail remained conventional.

Footnote 220:

Since building Christ Church, Streatham, at the opening of the decade, Wild had been busy in Egypt. His curious St Mark’s, Alexandria, as Saracenic as his detractors accused the Streatham church of being, was unhappily never brought to completion. Designed in 1842, work was suspended for lack of funds in 1848 and Wild then returned to England.

Footnote 221:

Deane owed his knighthood to having been Mayor of Cork, not to his professional attainments. It would appear that Woodward did all the firm’s designing and, after his death in 1861, Deane’s son Thomas Newenham took over.

Footnote 222:

See Viollet-le-Duc, E.-E., _Dictionnaire raisonné de l’architecture française du XI^e au XVI^e siècle_, 10 vols., Paris, 1854-68.

Footnote 223:

See Mackail, J. W., _The Life of William Morris_, London, 1899.

Footnote 224:

Burges designed this in 1868 in his most archaeological and articulated French Gothic manner. Construction began only in 1893, long after Burges’s death, and the suave quality of the execution, so uncharacteristic of the still High Victorian date of the original design, is thereby explained; at best the design was singularly out of key with what Bodley had built.

Footnote 225:

Since this is a Catholic church, and by a man who knew French Gothic architecture well, it provides the fairest possible comparison with Viollet-le-Duc’s own new church of Saint-Denys-de-l’Estrée at St-Denis designed at almost precisely the same time (Plate 98). Viollet-le-Duc is world-famous; Clutton is not generally considered even in England one of the leaders of his generation; yet the superiority of the Leamington church to the St-Denis church is very considerable indeed both inside and out.

Footnote 226:

See Harbron, D., ‘Thomas Harris’, _Architectural Review_, XCII (1942), 63-6, and Donner, P., ‘Harris Florilegium’, _Architectural Review_, XCIII (1943), 51-2.

Footnote 227:

This is spoilt externally by an unfortunate tower added by his son A. E. Street (1855-1938) in 1884-5.

Footnote 228:

See _The National Memorial to H.R.H. the Prince Consort_ [London], 1873.

Footnote 229:

Scott’s aspirations for architecture, in general more sympathetic than what he built, will be found in his _Remarks on Secular and Domestic Architecture, Present and Future_, London, 1858.

Footnote 230:

Although Woodward’s death occurred in the same year 1861 that this club was begun, it is possible, even probable, that the original design was his.

Footnote 231:

See Nesfield, W. E., _Specimens of Mediaeval Architecture ... in France and Italy_, London, 1862.

Footnote 232:

The intentions of the church builders in this decade are well presented in Micklethwaite, J. T., _Modern Parish Churches, their Plan, Design, and Furnishing_, London, 1874.

Footnote 233:

An extraordinary example of the use of Victorian Gothic for a somewhat unexpected purpose was Columbia Market by H. A. Darbishire (1839-1908) set down in 1866-8 among the grim housing blocks that he built for the philanthropist Angela Burdett-Coutts. See Wilson, F. M., ‘Ypres at Bethnal Green’, _Architectural Review_, XCVI (1944), 131-4.

Footnote 234:

Godwin’s active and distinguished Victorian Gothic period concluded with the building of two castles in Ireland, Dromore at Pallaskenny for the Earl of Limerick in 1867-9 and Glenbegh in 1868-71. Burges was with him in Ireland when he designed Dromore, and its decorations and furnishings rival in elaboration and exceed in elegance what Burges did for Lord Bute at Cardiff and Castell Coch in these years. A row with the client for Glenbegh, who complained of drastic leakage, in which Godwin’s then partner Crisp deserted him, did Godwin much harm professionally. He was still a relatively important figure in the Late Victorian seventies, but more as a decorator than as an architect (see

## Chapter 12).

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 11 - Notes

Footnote 235:

At the Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia the larger pavilions were all of iron and glass; and probably the most influential buildings were the British ones designed by Thomas Harris—no longer a wild ‘Victorian’—in a mode closely approaching Norman Shaw’s ‘Manorial’ mode (see Chapter 12). However, the exhibition stimulated the publication of several books on the Colonial architecture of Philadelphia which played their part in preparing the way for a ‘Colonial Revival’ (see Chapters 13 and 15).

Footnote 236:

Separate American editions of vols 2 and 3 did not appear promptly in 1853 in the way that of vol. 1 did in 1851. However, the three-volume American edition of 1861 was the first of the complete work.

Footnote 237:

See Tunnard, C., ‘Deviation by the Brothers Potter, Collegiate Gothic at Union College, Schenectady’, _Architectural Review_, CIII (1948), 67.

Footnote 238:

See Note [197], Chapter 8.

Footnote 239:

They had, after all, first met when they were both working for R. M. Hunt.

Footnote 240:

See Ware, W. R., _The Memorial Hall, Harvard University_, Boston, 1887.

Footnote 241:

In the 1936 edition of my book on Richardson a later Dorsheimer plan is incorrectly associated with this Buffalo house. The house is properly identified in Hitchcock, H.-R., ‘Richardson’s American Express Building: A Note’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, IX (1950), 25-30 and in the new 1961 edition.

Footnote 242:

This is also missing from my 1936 Richardson book, but will be found in the article cited above and in the 1961 edition of the book.

Footnote 243:

See Wight, P. B., ‘Reminiscences of Russell Sturgis’, _Architectural Record_, XXVI (1909), 123-31. It is perhaps worth pointing out that Farnam Hall, together with Sturgis’s contiguous Battell Chapel of 1876 and his Durfee Hall at right angles to it, although neither are of at all comparable excellence, give this corner of the Old Campus at Yale a consistent High Victorian Gothic character interesting to study both in relation to the earlier Romantic Gothic of Henry Austin’s library (now Dwight Chapel) of 1842-4 on the other side of the campus and the ‘traditional’ Collegiate Gothic of James Gamble Rogers’s twentieth-century Harkness Quadrangle across High Street.

Footnote 244:

See Schuyler, M., ‘The Work of William Appleton Potter’, _Architectural Record_, XXVI (1909), 176-96.

Footnote 245:

See Holly, H. H., _Church Architecture Illustrated_, Hartford, 1871. Much more extreme models can be found in general compendia of architectural design published in the late sixties and early seventies.

Footnote 246:

See Campbell, W., ‘Frank Furness, an American Pioneer’, _Architectural Review_, CX (1951), 310-15.

Footnote 247:

See ‘Another Furness Building: Provident Life and Trust Company Building, Philadelphia’, _Architectural Review_, CXII (1952), 196, ‘Provident Trust Company Banking Room, Philadelphia’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XI (1952), 31; and Massy, J. C., ‘The Provident Trust Buildings’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XIX (1960), 79-80.

Footnote 248:

See Withers, F. C., _Church Architecture_, New York, 1871.

Footnote 249:

See Upjohn, R. M., _The State Capitol, Hartford, Conn._, Boston, 1886.

Footnote 250:

It was the selection of the old Trinity College property to provide a site for the new Capitol that led to the rebuilding of the college elsewhere, for which Burges provided the designs (see Chapter 10).

Footnote 251:

It is worth recalling that much the same could evidently be said of Fuller & Laver’s San Francisco municipal group; characteristically enough for the period, this was Second Empire like their Albany Capitol, not High Victorian Gothic (see Chapter 9).

Footnote 252:

See Viollet-le-Duc, E.-E., _Entretiens sur l’architecture_, 2 vols, Paris, 1863, 1872; and translations, _Discourses on Architecture_, 2 vols, Boston, 1875, 1881, and _Lectures on Architecture_, 2 vols, London, 1877, 1881. Originally the _Entretiens_ appeared in parts, those in the first volume beginning to come out about 1860 and those in the second some six years later.

Footnote 253:

The two most sumptuously illustrated publications concerning Viollet-le-Duc offer very few examples of new buildings designed by him; these must be sought in periodicals and other general contemporary sources. See _Compositions et dessins de Viollet-le-Duc_, Paris, 1884, and Baudot, A. de, and Roussel, J., _Dessins inédits de Viollet-le-Duc_, 3 vols, Paris [n.d.]

Footnote 254:

The most extravagant compilation of idiosyncratic detail in Viollet-le-Duc’s work is to be seen on the tomb of Napoleon III’s half-brother the Duc de Morny, erected in 1858 in Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris. Hardly any element of the ornamentation is clearly referable to a particular stylistic source, and the whole effect is as ‘Victorian’ as anything the wildest High Victorians ever produced in England.

Footnote 255:

It should not be forgotten that Street’s Law Courts in London were completed only a year before Steindl began the Budapest Parliament House; but the Law Courts were, for England, extremely retardataire.

Footnote 256:

Burges won the competition for this in 1857, but in the end Street received the commission and built the church in 1864-9.

Footnote 257:

See Meeks, C. L. V., ‘Churches by Street on the Via Nazionale and the Via del Babuino’, _Art Quarterly_, XVI (1953), 215-27.

Footnote 258:

See Martinell, C., _La Sagrada Familia_, Barcelona, 1952, and Puig Boada, I., _El Templo de la Sagrada Familia_, Barcelona, 1952. A phenomenal number of articles have appeared concerning this church, all listed up to his date of publication (1952) by Ráfols in the later edition of his monograph on Gaudí.

Footnote 259:

Mixing the elements of several styles in individual buildings provided the liveliest aspect of eclecticism at this time; the mere use of alternative modes had chiefly the effect of blurring the edges of all the styles of the past.

Footnote 260:

Compare, for example, Sigfried Giedion’s presentation of the period in _Space, Time, and Architecture_.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 12 - Notes

Footnote 261:

Many serious and conscientious English students of this period would precede such a list with the name of George Devey (1820-86). Of Devey, in whose office C. F. A. Voysey, the most original English architect of the next generation, chose to work after completing his apprenticeship with Seddon, Voysey later wrote: ‘Providentially an invitation came to enter the Office of the most extensive practitioner in homes for the Nobility and Gentry. No domestic practice has equalled his in extent before or since his death.’ As in the case of William Burn, whose aristocratic practice of the forties and fifties Devey’s more than rivalled in the sixties and seventies, neither he nor his clients cared for publicity, and so none of his work was published, even to the slight extent that the work of Nesfield and Webb was illustrated in the professional journals. Still today his houses are known to posterity chiefly through a few articles: Godfrey, Walter ‘The Work of George Devey’, _Architectural Review_, XXI (1907), 23-30, 83-8, 293-306; and ‘George Devey, F.R.I.B.A., a Biographical Essay’, _Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects_, XIII (1906), 501-25.

But just as the work of Nesfield and Webb was in actuality familiar from the first to their professional friends and rivals, as also to prospective country house clients, so was that of Devey. Many of the stylistic trends so vigorously exploited by Shaw in the seventies can be traced back to Devey’s houses of the preceding decade—or so such experts on the period as H. S. Goodhart-Rendel and John Brandon-Jones, who know Devey’s work intimately, always insist. Foreign students of this period, from Muthesius to the Editor of this series and this author, perhaps merely because of lack of direct or even adequate indirect knowledge of Devey’s houses, have never been ready to grant him so important a place in the story. Here particularly, where the story is told in an international context, the evident strength of the influence of Shaw’s work abroad even more than at home justifies giving his primacy and referring only incidentally to that of Devey.

Footnote 262:

Shaw did not immediately succeed Webb, since the latter stayed on in Street’s office until the middle of 1859. There must have been close contact between them over a period of up to a year, and they remained in touch from then on. Blomfield, Shaw’s biographer, being himself prejudiced against Webb, underestimates the reality and the importance of this relationship. It is only one of the many errors of fact or emphasis in his book.

To quote from a private communication from Brandon-Jones concerning Shaw and Webb: ‘Each must have had a good idea of the work the other was doing. Their two offices, in Gray’s Inn and Bloomsbury Square, were within a stone’s-throw of one another, and Lethaby while working for Shaw was in close touch with Webb and was in his spare time assisting him with the architectural work of Morris & Co. It is quite obvious from the dates of various executed works that Lethaby was carrying over Webb’s ideas and details and trying them out in work he was doing for Shaw. As for the mutual respect and friendship between Webb and Shaw, I [Brandon-Jones] have recently come across a letter written at the time of Shaw’s death in which he [Webb] pays a tribute to his “old friend”, and I have also seen a letter from Sydney Barnsley to Sydney Cockerell in which Barnsley says that he had called on Shaw only a few months before his death and that Shaw had been talking of Webb and saying that he still treasured some photographs given him by Webb nearly fifty years earlier.’

Footnote 263:

Devey’s incidental work at Penshurst Place in Kent, where that notable fourteenth-century manor house was restored by him, having been done more than a decade earlier, probably prepared the way for this. It is extremely likely that Nesfield was familiar with what Devey had done there; but the line forward leads, in the late sixties, from Nesfield to Shaw, not directly from Devey to Shaw.

Footnote 264:

See Pevsner, N., ‘Art Furniture of the Seventies’, _Architectural Review_, CXI (1952), 23-50.

Footnote 265:

The most famous instance of _japonisme_ in decoration is Whistler’s ‘Peacock Room’, now in the Freer Gallery in Washington. See Ferriday, P., ‘Peacock Room’, _Architectural Review_, CXXV (1959), 407-14.

Footnote 266:

Once again Devey had prepared the way, in this case at Betteshanger, Kent, a house built precisely ten years earlier. This will doubtless have been known both to friends of Devey’s clients and to various young architects. But the Kew lodge was located where everyone could see it, even though it was not published until the nineties.

Footnote 267:

For this also there was precedent at Devey’s Betteshanger; but Betteshanger initiated no popular mode in the way that the conspicuous London schools by Robson and Stevenson’s highly touted house did at this point. For the schools, see Jones, D. G., ‘Towers of Learning’, _Architectural Review_, CXXIII (1958), 393-8.

Footnote 268:

See Harbron, D., ‘Queen Anne Taste and Aestheticism’, _Architectural Review_, XCLV (1943), 15-18.

Footnote 269:

See Shaw, R. N., _Sketches for Cottages and Other Buildings ..._, London, 1878.

Footnote 270:

See ‘The Ballad of Bedford Park’, _St James’s Gazette_, 17 December 1881 (reprinted by Blomfield, _Shaw_, 34-6). This is an amusing but not entirely accurate contemporary description in verse.

Footnote 271:

The handling of this building in section is particularly ingenious, the area of the service portions at the rear of the flats being much increased by the use of lower storey heights than in the reception rooms at the front. This device has been revived since, but its earlier invention by Shaw has rarely been noted Brandon-Jones pointed out to me.

Footnote 272:

At least they are now so painted; it is probable they were originally of ‘white’ Suffolk brick, actually a very pale yellow when newly laid and unbegrimed, but more likely to be black after a few decades of exposure to the air of London!

Footnote 273:

Hyde, H. M., ‘Wilde and his Architect’, _Architectural Review_, CIX (1951), 175-6.

Footnote 274:

It is characteristic of Shaw’s prestige in America and the rapidity with which architectural ideas crossed the ocean at this time that Shaw’s handsome perspective of the Alliance was published in America a few months earlier than in England.

Footnote 275:

White first approached Webb but, finding him too difficult to deal with, went to Shaw—a significant episode as regards both architects.

Footnote 276:

See Brandon-Jones, J., ‘Notes on the Building of Smeaton Manor’, _Architectural History_, I (1958), 31-59.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 13 - Notes

Footnote 277:

See Webster, J. C., ‘Richardson’s American Express Building’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, IX (1950), 21-4, and my article cited in Note 7 to Chapter 11.

Footnote 278:

See Richardson, H. H., _Trinity Church, Boston_, Boston, 1888.

Footnote 279:

3 vols, Paris, 1868-73. It will be noted that the last volume of this appeared after the original competition drawings for Trinity Church were prepared.

Footnote 280:

The source was probably the book by Vogüé of which the second volume appeared only in 1877 (see Note [196], Chapter 8). The motif first appeared in the North Easton Library, designed and begun in that year.

Footnote 281:

See Richardson, H. H., _The Ames Memorial Building_[197], Boston, 1886.

Footnote 282:

See Olmsted, F. L., and Kimball, T., _Frederick Law Olmsted_, 2 vols, New York, 1922-8.

Footnote 283:

See Richardson, H. H., _Austin Hall, Harvard Law School_, Boston, 1885.

Footnote 284:

See Richardson, H. H., _Description of Drawings for the Proposed New County Building for Allegheny County, Penn._, Boston, 1884.

Footnote 285:

See Schuyler, M., ‘The Romanesque Revival in New York’, _Architectural Record_, I (1891), 7-38, 151-98.

Footnote 286:

See Bragdon, C., ‘Harvey Ellis’, _Architectural Record_, XXV (1908), 173-83.

Footnote 287:

Hunt, of the older generation, was generally recognized as a leader in this camp also, although his energies in these years were principally engaged in designing and building a series of _François I_ châteaux for the Vanderbilts and other millionaires that are anything but academic in their involved picturesqueness.

This curious episode, which has been given exaggerated importance by some historians of American architecture, began with the designing of the W. K. Vanderbilt house in New York in 1879-80 (see Andrews, W., _The Vanderbilt Legend_, New York, 1941). Other architects were also briefly affected by what was hardly more than a recrudescence of a mode popular in France under Louis Philippe in Hunt’s youth (see

## Chapter 3).

A few houses by McKim, Mead & White of the early eighties are definitely _François I_, and Richardson used _François I_ dormers, probably independently of Hunt, on the Albany Capitol. Moreover, the round towers of the ‘Shingle Style’ undoubtedly owe something to Stanford White’s sketching trips in France. This episode obviously parallels the interest in revived Northern Renaissance modes of design in Germany, Holland, and Scandinavia in these decades, and has analogies also to the contemporary work in England of George & Peto and Collcutt (see Chapters 9 and 12).

Footnote 288:

In the designing of the Sherman house—particularly in the Shavian detailing—White had probably played an important part; he was, moreover, called on by the Shermans to enlarge the house in 1881. The library, of this date, is one of his finest pieces of interior decoration.

Footnote 289:

One of the earliest examples of the serious study of Colonial precedent is Arthur Little’s _Early New England Interiors_, Boston, 1878. However, his own work remained relatively free for some years.

Footnote 290:

See _Building News_, 28 April 1882.

Footnote 291:

These tiles wore out some years ago and have now been replaced. The smooth black roof seen on Plate 111 lacks the fine scale and rich texture the pantiles provide.

Footnote 292:

The conceptual organization of the exterior has seemed to most critics to have been borrowed from a much later monument, Henri Labrouste’s Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève in Paris of the 1840s, even though McKim would not admit it. There is certainly none of Labrouste’s exposed metalwork in the interior; but the extensive use of Guastavino tile vaults, at this time a real technical innovation, is worth noting.

Footnote 293:

See Burnham, D. H., _World’s Columbian Exposition_, Chicago, 1894, and Ives, H., _The Dream City_, St Louis, 1893.

Footnote 294:

The area round the ‘Wooded Isle’ was much less regular than that round the Lagoon in continuance of Olmsted’s earlier and more naturalistic sort of landscaping. Into this area were shunted most of the buildings by local architects, doubtless because McKim distrusted their capacity to conform to the academic standards he was setting.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 14 - Notes

Footnote 295:

See Note [97], Chapter 5.

Footnote 296:

Somewhat fuller accounts of English commercial architecture in this period will be found in Hitchcock, ‘Victorian Monuments of Commerce’, _Architectural Review_, CV (1949), 61-74, and in Hitchcock, _Early Victorian Architecture_, Chapters XI and XII. Most of the English buildings mentioned in this chapter are illustrated either in the book or the article.

Footnote 297:

See Weisman, W., ‘Commercial Palaces of New York’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XXXVI (1954), 285-302.

Footnote 298:

See Bogardus, J., _Cast Iron Buildings: Construction and Advantages_, New York, 1856.

Footnote 299:

See Hitchcock, H.-R., ‘Early Cast Iron Façades’, _Architectural Review_, CIX (1951), 113-16.

Footnote 300:

See Weisman, W., ‘Philadelphia Functionalism and Sullivan’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XX (1961), 3-19.

Footnote 301:

See Sturges, W. K., ‘Cast Iron in New York’, _Architectural Review_, CXIV (1953), 233-8.

Footnote 302:

See Peterson, C., ‘Ante-bellum Skyscraper’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, IX (1950), 27-9; X (1951), 25. The Jayne Building, begun by Johnston, was completed by Thomas U. Walter. It has unfortunately been demolished since 1958.

Footnote 303:

See Woodward, G., ‘Oriel Chambers’, _Architectural Review_, CXIX (1956), 268-70. Fine measured drawings by students of the University of Liverpool School of Architecture were published in _Architectural History_, II (1959), 81-94.

Footnote 304:

See Note [277], Chapter 13.

Footnote 305:

See Weisman, W., ‘New York and the Problem of the First Skyscraper’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XII (1953), 13-20. For a rather different opinion, see Webster, J. C., ‘The Skyscraper: Logical and Historical Considerations’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XVIII (1959), 126-39.

Footnote 306:

It is worth noting that neither cast-iron façades nor the vertical articulation of the Philadelphia buildings of the fifties was used in either case. Both developments of the mid century proved cul-de-sacs since the New York architects followed the established modes of the sixties for monumental buildings in these first two skyscrapers. In the same years 1873-4, however, Hunt did build the five-storey edifice at 478-482 Broadway in New York with an all cast-iron front, employing a sort of attenuated ‘giant order’ subsuming the three middle storeys.

Footnote 307:

Giedion first called attention to the importance of ‘balloon-frame’ construction in _Space, Time and Architecture_ in 1941; but see Field, W., ‘A Re-examination into the Invention of the Balloon Frame’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, II (1942), 3-29.

Footnote 308:

See Randall, G., _The Great Fire of Chicago and its Causes_, Chicago [1871].

Footnote 309:

See Hope, H., ‘Louis Sullivan’s Architectural Ornament’, _Magazine of Art_, XL (1947), 110-17. Sullivan thought of his early ornament as somehow ‘Egyptian’, but it is not very easy to see why. A later, so far unpublished study by Etel Kramer seems to establish, contrary to his own statements, that Sullivan owed a good deal to the theories of Owen Jones and that his ornament matured, earlier than has hitherto been supposed, in 1884-5.

Footnote 310:

This is not the same as the Revell Store.

Footnote 311:

Several more storeys were added later and appear in many of the published views.

Footnote 312:

One must say ‘metal’, because structural steel was only gradually replacing cast and wrought iron at this time; all these types of ferrous material were probably used in the Home Insurance, the Rookery, and other skyscrapers of the mid eighties. Two books by W. Birkmire, _Architectural Iron and Steel_, New York, 1891, and _Skeleton Construction in Buildings_, New York, 1893, best present the technical aspects of large-scale metal construction as it matured in the eighties and early nineties.

Footnote 313:

An American edition of this book appeared in 1880. See Note [309], _supra_.

Footnote 314:

I owe this suggestion to Vincent Scully.

Footnote 315:

Incidentally, the signature Frank L[loyd] Wright on the drawings for a rather Richardsonian group of three masonry houses in Chicago, designed in the Adler & Sullivan office in 1888 for Victor L. Falkenau, suggests that it was Sullivan’s brilliant draughtsman, as it was Jenney’s assistant on the Leiter Building, who was responsible for this example of overt Richardsonian influence.

Footnote 316:

The discovery by Condit that this building was begun in 1890 seemed to lend it a special importance, up until then unrecognized. But the text gives the correct dating.

Footnote 317:

It is so generally assumed that Sullivan’s mature style is without historical antecedents that the even more definitely _quattrocento_ character of the entrance here, as well as of those of the Guaranty Building, is rarely noted.

Footnote 318:

The five southernmost bays are an addition made in 1906 by D. H. Burnham & Co. They follow, with some slight diminution in the bay-width, Sullivan’s original design.

The form of the Burnham firm’s name in these years is significant of the increasing anonymity of architectural practice in America as the scale of operation increased (see Chapter 24).

Footnote 319:

See _Purcell and Elmslie Architects_ (Walker Art Gallery Exhibition Catalogue), Minneapolis, 1953, and Gebhard, D., ‘Louis Sullivan and George Grant Elmslie’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XIX (1960), 62-8, and _A Guide to the Existing Architecture of Purcell and Elmslie_, Roswell, N. M., 1960.

Footnote 320:

Of more interest than the skyscraper is a smaller and earlier Singer Building, also by Flagg. Flagg was one American who retained contact with the French tradition of exposed metal construction as well as with the academic aspects of ‘Beaux Arts’ design as his first Singer Building illustrates.

Footnote 321:

See Schuyler, M., ‘The Work of N. LeBrun & Sons’, _Architectural Record_, XXVII (1910), 365-80. The Metropolitan Tower is, of course, the work of a firm not of a single architect; LeBrun himself had been dead for some years.

Footnote 322:

See Schuyler, M., ‘“The Towers of Manhattan” and Notes on the Woolworth Building’, _Architectural Record_, XXX (1913), 98-122.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 15 - Notes

Footnote 323:

See Note [107], Chapter 6

Footnote 324:

For a remarkable later development of the veranda outside England, see Robertson, E. G., ‘The Australian Verandah’, _Architectural Review_, CXXVII (1960), 238-45.

Footnote 325:

There are many examples in various English books of the first third of the century; characteristic are those offered by T. F. Hunt, J. B. Papworth, and P. F. Robinson. See Note [134] to Chapter 6.

Footnote 326:

See Note [132], Chapter 6.

Footnote 327:

See Note [128], Chapter 6.

Footnote 328:

See Note [133], Chapter 6.

Footnote 329:

See Note [308], Chapter 14.

Footnote 330:

See Note [132], Chapter 6.

Footnote 331:

In the _Builder_ for 15 January 1859 and in the Supplement to Kerr, R., _The Gentleman’s House_, 2nd ed., London, 1865.

Footnote 332:

Contemporaries saw this house rather as a reaction towards the ‘Old English’ after the ‘modernism’ of the High Victorian Gothic and the Second Empire of the preceding decade. How conscious Shaw himself was of the significance of his own innovations it is difficult to say.

Footnote 333:

The plan was first published by Muthesius in 1904; this does not mean that its character was not known to contemporary architects, however.

Footnote 334:

By this time photo-lithographic processes made it possible for Shaw’s perspectives to appear in the _Building News_ practically as facsimiles of his originals. Had it been necessary, as in the fifties and sixties, to ‘translate’ them into wood-engravings the transmission of the Shavian influence abroad would certainly have been much less effective.

Footnote 335:

See Note [133], Chapter 6. The term ‘Eastlake’ is sometimes rather inaccurately used for the Stick Style.

Footnote 336:

See Wheeler, G., _Rural Houses_, New York, 1851, with later editions to 1868, and his _Homes for the People in Suburb and Country_, New York, 1855, with later editions to 1867.

Footnote 337:

See Gardner, E. C., _Homes and How to Build Them_, Boston, 1874, and also his _Illustrated Homes_, Boston, 1875.

Footnote 338:

See Woodward, G. E., _Woodward’s Country Houses_, New York, 1865; _Woodward’s Architecture, Landscape Gardening and Rural Art_, New York, 1867; _Woodward’s Cottage and Farm Houses_, New York, 1867; and _Woodward’s National Architect_, New York, 1868. Of _Woodward’s Country Houses_ there were eight successive editions within a decade, thus rivalling in this period the popularity of Downing’s _Cottage Residences_ in the forties and fifties; however, it is worth noting that the latter still remained in print.

Footnote 339:

See Sturges, W. K., ‘Long Shadow of Norman Shaw: Queen Anne Revival’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, IX (1950), 21-5.

Footnote 340:

Scully in _The Shingle Style_ provides evidence that the idea of a great hall was not unknown in America well before this. It may be unnecessary to suppose that Richardson knew of the Hinderton plan, since one or two comparable ones can be found in books appearing in America in the fifties; see, for example, the Nathan Reeve house in Newburgh, N.Y., published as ‘Design No. 22’ in Vaux, C., _Villas and Cottages_, New York, 1857. However that may be, the great hall theme was rarely exploited in Second Empire or Stick Style houses of the sixties. It makes a notable appearance or re-appearance, as the case may be, in Richardson’s planning just after 1870. See Notes VI-4 and VIII-2 in the 1961 edition of my Richardson book.

Footnote 341:

The term is Vincent Scully’s. Various themes touched on in this and succeeding paragraphs are discussed at length in his homonymous volume and provided there with a full roster of illustrations.

Footnote 342:

It is of interest that when the _Monograph of the Work of McKim, Mead & White_ was prepared in 1915 almost all this early work was omitted. It has been rediscovered by critics and historians in the last thirty years, beginning with Mumford in the _Brown Decades_ in 1931.

Footnote 343:

Just how the influence reached American architects so early is not altogether clear. The first treatise in English on Japanese architecture is Morse, E. S., _Japanese Homes and Their Surroundings_, Boston, 1886; new ed., New York, 1961. See Lancaster, C., ‘Japanese Buildings in the United States before 1900: Their Influence upon American Domestic Architecture’, _Art Bulletin_, XXXV (1953), 217-24.

Footnote 344:

See Hitchcock, H. R., ‘Frank Lloyd Wright and the “Academic Tradition” in the Nineties’, _Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes_, VII (1947), 46-63.

Footnote 345:

For an unsuspected but possible influence on Wright in this façade, see Gebhard, D., ‘A Note on the Chicago Fair of 1893 and Frank Lloyd Wright’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XVIII (1959), 63-5.

Footnote 346:

Japanese influence was more evident at the Chauncey L. Williams house at 520 Edgewood Place in River Forest, Ill., of 1895, notably in the use of rough boulders at the foot of the brick wall and flanking the entrance. Wright by this time was enthusiastically interested in Japanese prints; whether he also knew Morse’s book of 1886 (see Note 20 _supra_) is not clear.

Footnote 347:

This was very much extended, but along the original lines, in 1901, as shown on Plate 128B. The present River Forest Tennis Club, a much smaller structure, is not the same, though it bears some superficial resemblance to the Golf Club. The building of 1898-1901 was demolished in 1905.

Footnote 348:

I am grateful to John Brandon-Jones for allowing me to read the manuscript of his unpublished monograph on Voysey. Without his assistance of various sorts this account of Voysey could not have been written and illustrated.

Footnote 349:

See Note [261], Chapter 12.

Footnote 350:

The ‘House at Doverscourt for A. J. W. Ward’, published in the _British Architect_, 11 April 1890, was apparently never executed any more than those illustrated the previous year. It is very like Perrycroft, built in 1893, the first of Voysey’s important country houses, thus suggesting that on paper his style had in fact largely crystallized by this date before his Forster house was begun. It is of interest that the plan of the Ward project is more open than those of any of his executed houses; it may well have influenced Baillie Scott (see below).

Footnote 351:

Brandon-Jones suggests, however, that the very plain Regency villa in which Voysey was then living in St John’s Wood may have had some generic influence on the Forster house.

Footnote 352:

At Perrycroft the mullions are of wood, originally painted green. At the Forster house they were of stone, and that is true of almost all the later houses. So also the slates here were Welsh and grey; when he began to work in the Lake District he turned to green slates, earlier used by Godwin on Whistler’s house. These became standard on his later houses wherever they were built.

Footnote 353:

For a later tribute to his influence and that of Baillie Scott abroad, see Fisker, K., ‘Tre pionerer fra aarhundredskiftet’, _Byggmästaren_, 1947, 221-32; the third ‘pioneer’, rather surprisingly, is Tessenow (see Chapter 20).

Footnote 354:

For a remarkable later work of Lethaby, see Pevsner, N., ‘Lethaby’s Last’, _Architectural Review_, CXXX (1961), 354-7. This church, at Brockhampton-by-Ross in Herefordshire, was roofed with pre-cast concrete slabs at the surprisingly early date of 1900-2; and its simplified, rather angular, Gothic design is, in effect, already proto-Expressionist.

Footnote 355:

See Pevsner, N., ‘George Walton, His Life and Work’, _Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects_, XLVI (1939), 537-48.

Footnote 356:

Voysey was also a notable designer of wallpapers and chintzes, perhaps the most notable of his generation in England.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 16 - Notes

Footnote 357:

See Madsen’s _Sources of Art Nouveau_, 75-83.

Footnote 358:

See Schmutzler, R., ‘English Origins of the Art Nouveau’, _Architectural Review_, CXVII (1955), 108-16. The question is discussed further at a later point in this chapter (pp. 284-5).

Footnote 359:

See Note [149], Chapter 7.

Footnote 360:

The one large structure built for this exhibition in permanent form, the Palais du Trocadéro by Davioud, has since been replaced. Vaguely Saracenic in design, yet not altogether unworthy in silhouette of its splendid site on the Chaillot heights, this shared none of the qualities of Eiffel’s temporary pavilion. See Davioud, G., _Le Palais du Trocadéro_, Paris, 1878. As long as it lasted, however, the Trocadéro provided a sort of pendant on this side of Paris to Abadie’s Sacré-Cœur atop Montmartre, begun in the same rather dreary decade of French architectural production.

Footnote 361:

See Note [265]a, Chapter 12.

Footnote 362:

See Alphand, A., _L’Exposition universelle de Paris de 1889_, Paris, 1892.

Footnote 363:

See Eiffel, G., _La Tour de trois-cents-mètres_, Paris, 1900.

Footnote 364:

Bogardus’s shot-towers of the fifties in New York, which were of essentially similar construction, received little contemporary or later publicity. It is still uncertain whether Jenney knew of them when he built the Home Insurance Building in Chicago in 1883-5. See T. C. Bannister, ‘Bogardus Revisited, Part II’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XVI (1957).

Footnote 365:

See Note [253], Chapter 11.

Footnote 366:

See Grady, J., ‘Bibliography of the Art Nouveau’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XIV (1955), 18-27 and _Art Nouveau_ (Museum of Modern Art Exhibition Catalogue), New York [1960].

Footnote 367:

This applies particularly to Art Nouveau decoration; the major architectural works were frequently very plastically organized, although most of the detail was linear.

Footnote 368:

See Schmutzler, R., ‘Blake and the Art Nouveau’, _Architectural Review_, CXVIII (1955), 90-7.

Footnote 369:

See Lancaster, C., ‘Oriental Contributions to Art Nouveau’, _Art Bulletin_, XXXIV (1952), 297-310.

Footnote 370:

See Grady, J., ‘Nature and the Art Nouveau’, _Art Bulletin_, XXXVII (1955), 187-92.

Footnote 371:

See Mackmurdo, A. H., _Wren’s City Churches_, Orpington, 1883.

Footnote 372:

Not perhaps impossible: There is something a little analogous to Impressionism in the work of Shaw, though he probably had no admiration for the art of Monet and his contemporaries in the seventies even if he was at all aware of it. The same is true of the American masters of the Shingle Style. The analogy lies in the casual looseness of over-all composition and the delicacy of the touch—both tile-hanging and shingles provide a certain effect of ‘broken colour’ or at least ‘tachiste’ brushwork—even though they are usually monochrome. On the other hand, Kimball in his _American Architecture_, written a generation ago, saw an analogy to Cézanne in the return to architectural order in the mid eighties in America. There is no evidence that McKim or White then admired any French painters more advanced than Puvis de Chavannes however.

Footnote 373:

Some studio houses were certainly built in France by leading architects throughout the second half of the nineteenth century: The one that Viollet-le-Duc provided for the painter Constant Troyon in the late fifties was of notable interest—in fact, one of his best works. Moreover, the more modest _ateliers d’ artiste_ erected by builders provided much later, in the 1920s, precedents of value to Le Corbusier and Lurçat. See Banham, R., ‘Ateliers d’artiste’, _Architectural Review_, CXX (1956), 75-83.

Footnote 374:

See Delhaye, J., ‘Hommage à mon maître; architecte Baron Victor Horta’, _L’Appartement d’aujourd’hui_, Liège, 1946, 6-17; Maus, O., ‘Habitations modernes, Victor Horta’, _L’Art moderne_, XX (1900), 221-3; Sedeyn, E., ‘Victor Horta’, _L’Art décoratif_, IX (1902), 230-42; and Madsen, S. T., ‘Horta. Works and Style of Victor Horta before 1900’, _Architectural Review_, CXVIII (1955), 388-92.

Footnote 375:

See Koch, R., and others, _Louis Comfort Tiffany 1848-1933_, New York, 1958.

Footnote 376:

The wallpaper was probably one of those designed by Heywood Sumner, possibly his ‘Tulip’ according to Elizabeth Aslin of the Victoria and Albert Museum. This was one of the considerable range of English papers shown by Jeffrey & Company at the Salon de l’Association pour l’Art d’Anvers in Antwerp in the winter of 1892-3. These papers, which included designs by most of the English leaders in the field of decorative art, had already been shown at the Paris Exposition of 1889. It is hard to believe that Horta became aware of them only when the Tassel house was nearly finished and not earlier in Antwerp or in Paris. For the Antwerp showing, see Van de Velde, H., ‘Artistic Wallpapers’, _L’Art moderne_, XIII (1893), 193-5. This article was copied in _L’Emulation_, XVIII (1893), 150-1, the most advanced Belgian architectural journal, where the Tassel house itself was published in 1895. It introduces the name of another important Belgian figure besides Horta in the story of the Art Nouveau.

Footnote 377:

It is of interest, although irrelevant to the inception of the Art Nouveau, that in this same year Horta became professor of architecture at the Académie like Balat before him.

Footnote 378:

See Kaufmann, E., ‘224 Avenue Louise’, _Interiors_, 116 (1957), 88-93.

Footnote 379:

For a late tribute to Van de Velde in English, see Shand, P. M., _Architectural Review_, CXII (1952), 143-55. It is a major error of emphasis—and in detail an accumulation of errors of fact—that H. Lenning offers in his book _The Art Nouveau_ (The Hague, 1951) by accepting the legend that Van de Velde was the initiator of the Art Nouveau. There is plenty of evidence that Van de Velde was aware of English innovations in decoration from the early nineties. On the other hand, despite the wallpaper in the Tassel dining-room, it should be noted that Horta’s widow and his disciple Delhaye minimize, to the point of denying all but absolutely, the dependence of Horta on English sources at the time he designed the Tassel house.

Footnote 380:

Paul Hankar (1861-1901) was a third Belgian architectural innovator in this period. His work, however, is so crude and uneven that his name need be no more than mentioned. He is in no proper sense an exponent of the Art Nouveau. See Conrady, C., and Thibaux, R., _Paul Hankar_, [n.p.] 1923.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 17 - Notes

Footnote 381:

See Malton, J., ‘Art Nouveau in Essex’, _Architectural Review_, CXXVI (1959), 100-4. For a considerably earlier and more extraordinary example of English work approaching the Art Nouveau, see Beazley, E., ‘Watts Chapel’, _Architectural Review_, CXXX (1961), 166-72. This chapel at Compton, Surrey, was designed in 1896 by Mary Watts, the widow of the painter G. F. Watts. The inspiration seems to have been predominantly Norse and Celtic.

Footnote 382:

See Gout, P., _L’Architecture au XX^e siècle et l’Art Nouveau_, Paris, 1903.

Footnote 383:

See Hostingue, G. d’, _Le Castel Béranger, œuvre de H. G., architecte_, Paris, 1898.

Footnote 384:

Both the main façade and the principal interior are essentially the work of Deglane. Louvet and Thomas were more responsible for other elements of the complex structure.

Footnote 385:

See _L’architecture moderne à Paris, concours de façades_, 2 vols, Paris, 1901, 1902.

Footnote 386:

See Uhry, E., ‘Agrandissements des magasins de la Samaritaine’, _L’Architecte_, II (1907), 13-14, 20, plates X-XII.

Footnote 387:

I owe my knowledge of this remarkable façade to Martin Kermacy. He was unable to find out by whom and when it was built; it is very probably an early work of Josef Urban, Novotny informs me.

Footnote 388:

For another rather independent Scottish architect of this period, see Walker, D. M., ‘Lamond of Dundee’, _Architectural Review_, CXXIII (1958), 269-71.

Footnote 389:

See Scheichenbauer, M., _Alfredo Campanini_, Milan, 1958.

Footnote 390:

See Note [259], Chapter 11.

Footnote 391:

Among other things, it is Gaudi’s use of forms inspired by primitive architecture that has appealed to later twentieth-century taste. ‘Primitivism’ in painting and sculpture has been of recurrent importance since the days of the Fauves and the Expressionists; a comparable primitivism in architecture has been much rarer, except for Gaudí.

Footnote 392:

Except as regards the theories of vaulting exemplified in successive schemes for the Sagrada Familia and his church at Santa Coloma de Cervelló, Gaudí’s technical innovations have been until lately little studied despite the very considerable literature devoted to his work. Research is proving that he made many important innovations in structure over and above those so evident in the crypt—the only portion executed—of the Santa Coloma church. George Collins showed some of the results, as yet unpublished, of the latest studies in an exhibition at Columbia University in May 1962.

Footnote 393:

While the mosaic of broken fragments of patterned ceramic on the benches at the Parc Güell suggests Cubist _collages_ and even Dada compositions—notably the _Merzbilder_ of Kurt Schwitters—the handling of the coloured glass on this façade is closer to the paintings of Jackson Pollock and other New York artists of the 1950s.

Footnote 394:

A curious continuation, or more accurately revival, of Gaudian modes has of late occurred in Portuguese Africa. See Beinart, J., ‘Amancio Guedes, Architect of Lourenço Marques’, _Architectural Review_, CXXIX (1961), 240-51.

Footnote 395:

Even Gaudí after 1910 produced little, being almost wholly occupied with the slow progress of the Sagrada Familia. Of course, in a sense Horta is another exception; but his success after 1910 was of purely local significance and dependent on his total rejection of the Art Nouveau of his youth. One can only think of the later career of Giorgio de Chirico, still today a success in Italy but ignored by the outside world except when he imitates his earlier work.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 18 - Notes

Footnote 396:

See _Concrete and Constructional Engineering_, II (January 1956), special anniversary number reviewing the history of concrete. More important later studies are: Raafat, A. A., _Reinforced Concrete in Architecture_, New York [1958]; and Collins, P., _Concrete, The Vision of a New Architecture_, New York [1959]. See also Kramer, E. W., and Raafat, A. A., ‘The Ward House, Pioneer Structure of Reinforced Concrete’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XX (1961), 34-7.

Footnote 397:

See Baudot, A. de, _L’Architecture, le passé, le présent_, Paris, 1916, and Baudot, J. de, _L’Architecture et le béton armé_, Paris, 1916.

Footnote 398:

See Huxtable, A. L., ‘Progressive Architecture in America: Reinforced Concrete Construction. The work of Ernest L. Ransome, Engineer—1884-1911’ and ‘Factory for Packard Motor Car Company—1905, Detroit, Michigan, Albert Kahn, Architect. Ernest Wilby, Associate’, _Progressive Architecture_, 38 (1957), 139-42 and 121-2.

Such research is revealing that Albert Kahn (1869-1942) was not such a pioneer in concrete factory construction as has been generally supposed. However, the ‘Kahn Bar’ developed by his brothers’ engineering firm was a major technical contribution, and undoubtedly his motor-car factories were among the earliest major industrial works in the new material. For the alternative use of steel in American warehouse and factory construction, see Eaton, L. K., ‘Frame of Steel’, _Architectural Review_, CXXVI (1959), 289-90.

Footnote 399:

The detailed history of the concrete grain elevator cannot be given here. The prototypes for the great monuments of Buffalo, Minneapolis, and Duluth were certainly French. These monolithic cylinders are, of course, very different from the motor-car factories with their post-and-lintel construction, but the history of the elevator undoubtedly runs nearly parallel to that of the factory. See [Torbert, D. R.] _A Century of Minnesota Architecture_, Minneapolis, 1958, unpaged.

Footnote 400:

In the last few years the innovations of such engineers as Pierluigi Nervi (b. 1891) in Italy, Eduardo Torroja (1899-1961) in Spain, and Felix Candela (b. 1910) in Mexico have revolutionized earlier conceptions of the possibilities of ferro-concrete (see Chapter 25). For Torroja, see _The Structures of Eduardo Torroja_, New York [1960], and Torroja, E., _The Philosophy of Structures_, Berkeley, 1958. (See Epilogue.)

Footnote 401:

See Pfammatter, P., _Betonkirchen_, Cologne and Zurich, 1948.

Footnote 402:

By reaction many of the same architects, notably Le Corbusier, have in the last few years consciously sought the brutality of industrial concrete finish—he calls it _béton brut_—even in monumental work (see

## Chapter 25 and Epilogue).

Footnote 403:

The atelier was founded in 1928.

Footnote 404:

The team that worked with Perret on Le Havre consisted of P. Branche, P. Dubouillon, P. Feuillebois, A. Heaume, J. Imbert, M. Kaeppelin, G. Lagneau, M. Lotte, P.-E. Lambert, A. Le Donné, A. Persitz, J. Poirrier, H. Tougard, and J. Tournant, all of whom seem to have shared responsibility for the buildings flanking the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville. Poirrier, Le Donné, and Lambert were, however, joint architects-in-chief. Specific attributions are perhaps not very significant in this kind of situation, but the characteristic Hôtel Normandie (1950) is by Poirrier and the whole sea front by Lambert.

Footnote 405:

See Garnier, T., _Une Cité industrielle_, Paris [1918]. The basic project goes back to 1901, but was much elaborated in the intervening years. Although it was unpublished, many architects were certainly familiar with its general character. See Wiebenson, D., ‘Utopian Aspects of Garnier’s Cité Industrielle’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XIX (1960), 16-24.

Footnote 406:

See Garnier, T., _Les Grands Travaux de la ville de Lyon_, Paris, 1919.

Footnote 407:

This applies particularly to the work of Michel Roux-Spitz (b. 1888), who became in the thirties the acknowledged leader of the profession in France.

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## CHAPTER 19 - Notes

Footnote 408:

See Zevi, B., _Verso un’architettura organica_, Turin, 1945; English translation, _Towards an Organic Architecture_, London, 1950.

Footnote 409:

See Pellegrini, L., ‘La decorazione funzionale del primo Wright’, _L’Architettura_ (1956), 198-203.

Footnote 410:

Wright’s ‘Baroque’ period, running for approximately ten years from 1914 to 1924, parallels the Expressionist episode in European modern architecture (see Chapters 21 and 22). That may be considered to open with van der Meij’s Scheepvaarthuis of 1912-13 in Amsterdam and to run out in general sometime in the mid twenties. It is not apparent that there was any influence of consequence either way; indeed, the effect of studying Wright’s work in the war years and the early twenties was rather adverse to Expressionism and related tendencies, particularly in Holland where Wright’s influence was strongest.

Footnote 411:

See _Life_, V (26 Sep. 1938), 60-1.

Footnote 412:

See _Ladies Home Journal_, February 1901; June 1901; April 1907.

Footnote 413:

Wright, F. Ll., _The Story of the Tower_, New York, 1956.

Footnote 414:

Wright had a tendency to scoff at the work of his former junior associates and to deny the reality of their discipleship. There are at present in practice a good many architects who have been for shorter or longer periods at Taliesin, where the Fellowship has at times since the Second World War included over sixty. Those who were at Taliesin some time ago have naturally made the greater mark, since many of the post-war members of the Fellowship had, in the mid 1950s, only just begun their own practice. Alden Dow (b. 1904) in Midland, Michigan, and Henry Klumb (b. 1905) in San Juan, Puerto Rico, have over the last few years the greatest volume of work of more-or-less Wrightian inspiration to their credit. But it must not be forgotten that Richard J. Neutra (b. 1892), whose work is of a very different order, was also for a time with Wright; while there are some architects whose work is Wrightian to the point of parody who have never had any direct contact with Wright at all.

Footnote 415:

Richard E. Schmidt (1865-1959) and Hugh M. G. Garden (1873-1961).

Footnote 416:

The contribution of these men is only beginning to receive the study which it merits now the realization is growing that American architecture was far less dominated by traditionalism in the first quarter of the twentieth century, particularly in the Middle West and on the Pacific Coast, than has generally been supposed in the last thirty years. See Brooks, A., ‘The Early Work of the Prairie Architects’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XIX (1960), 2-10.

Footnote 417:

See Thompson, E., ‘The Early Domestic Architecture of the San Francisco Bay Region’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, X (1951), 15-21; Bangs, J. M., ‘Bernard Ralph Maybeck, Architect, Comes into His Own’, _Architectural Record_, CIII (1948), 72-9, and ‘Greene and Greene’, _Architectural Forum_, LXXXIX (1948), 80-9; McCoy, E., _Five California Architects_, New York, 1960; and Woodbridge, J. M. and S. B., _Buildings of the Bay Area, a Guide to the Architecture of the San Francisco Bay Region_, New York, 1960, which covers both earlier and later work.

Footnote 418:

See Price, C., ‘Panama-Californian Exposition: Bertram Grosvenor Goodhue and the Renaissance of Spanish-Colonial Architecture’, _Architectural Record_, XXXVII (1915), 229-51.

Footnote 419:

See Macomber, B., _The Jewel City, its Planning and Achievement_..., San Francisco, 1915.

Footnote 420:

See Lancaster, C., ‘The American Bungalow’, _Art Bulletin_, XL (1958), 239-53.

Footnote 421:

That is, on the West Coast; considered as an alternative to the ‘International Style’ suitable for emulation everywhere, as it was for a few years, it had no more validity than any other regional mode.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 20 - Notes

Footnote 422:

Reviving interest in Expressionism has already led to considerable significant publication. See, for example, Dorfles, G., _Barocco nell’architettura moderna_, Milan, 1951, especially the second part; Gregotti, G., ‘L’Architettura del’Espressionismo’, _Casabella_, August 1961, [260]-48; Conrads, U., and Sperlich, H. G., _Phantastische Architektur_, Stuttgart, [1960]; and, for a particularly significant figure, Joedicke, J., ‘Haering at Garkau’, _Architectural Review_, CXXVII (1960), 313-18. For a remarkable Expressionist publication by an architect who was very active and influential in Germany in the 1920s, see Taut, B., _Die Stadtkrone_, Jena, 1919.

Footnote 423:

For the development of Van de Velde’s ideas in these years see _Die Renaissance im modernen Kunstgewerbe_, Berlin, 1901, and _Vom neuen Stil_, Leipzig, 1907. Van de Velde was a prolific writer, and it is impossible to give a complete list of his books and articles here. They will be found in Madsen’s _Sources of Art Nouveau_, 469.

Footnote 424:

See Bauer, C. K., _Modern Housing_, Boston and New York, 1934; and my _Early Victorian Architecture in Britain_, Chapters XIII and XIV.

Footnote 425:

See Schumacher, F., _Das Wesen des neuzeitlichen Backsteinbaues_, Munich, 1917. The rich and decorative use of brick is as characteristic of the Hamburg School as of the Amsterdam School in these decades (see Chapter 21).

Footnote 426:

See Bie, O., _Der Architekt Oskar Kaufmann_, Berlin, 1928; Hegemann, W., _German Bestelmeyer_, Berlin [n.d.] and Mayer, H., and Rehdern, G., _Wilhelm Kreis_, Essen, 1953. In the twenties a large number of such well-illustrated monographs on individual German architects were published; it is much more difficult to find adequate documentation on the work of several architects in other countries who are of considerably greater originality and historical importance.

Footnote 427:

Paraboloid domes of ferro-concrete were used with brilliant spatial effect by Jacques Droz (b. 1882) at Sainte-Jeanne-d’Arc in Nice. This was built in 1932, just at the same time that Böhm was building Sankt Engelbert. The plan, consisting of three intersecting ellipses, is very nearly identical with that of J. B. Neumann’s Baroque masterpiece Vierzehnheiligen; the result is very different, however, because of the continuity of the walls and roof here. Unfortunately Droz’s church was elaborated with a tower and other features of a rather ‘Jazz-Modern’ order.

Footnote 428:

Another German church-architect of the twenties who has still a very considerable reputation is Otto Bartning (b. 1883). He moved much earlier in this direction than Böhm. For a statement of his intentions, see Bartning, O., _Vom neuen Kirchbau_, Berlin, 1919.

Footnote 429:

See _Maria Königin_ [Cologne, n.d.].

Footnote 430:

This is not the place to discuss these churches. It may be remarked here, however, that Candela’s church is considerably more Expressionist in appearance, especially the interior, than anything Böhm ever built in the twenties. Yet its strangely angular piers and vaults that _look_ so much like the settings for the ‘Cabinet of Dr Caligari’, the most famous German Expressionist film, result from this engineer’s consistent use of the hyperbolic paraboloid forms which he favours primarily for technical reasons. De la Mora, Niemeyer, and Moya were content to use barrel-vault elements of plain parabolic section such as were first introduced by Böhm in 1925-6.

Footnote 431:

The triangular bay-window lighting the stairs is still somewhat Expressionist, but the interior treatment is in general more related to geometrical abstract art. The decoration approaches what came to be known as ‘Jazz-Modern’ when it became vulgarized in the next ten years or so in England. The contrast of the interiors that Behrens designed with the fine examples of Mackintosh’s furniture, brought from a house that he had remodelled earlier for the Bassett-Lowkes, appears rather shocking a generation later. What must have been considered a bit _démodé_ in 1925 now represents to posterity—at least in the field of furniture design—the main line of advance in the early twentieth century; what then seemed in England to be ‘the last word’ has dated badly.

Footnote 432:

‘New Objectivity’: A generic term for some of the advanced movements that succeeded Expressionism in the arts; in architecture, roughly equivalent to ‘Functionalism’.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 21 - Notes

Footnote 433:

The use of aluminium in architecture became widespread only some forty years later, it should be noted, although it had supplied the cap of the pyramid with which T. L. Casey finally completed the Washington Monument as early as 1884—its first use in architecture. In the nineties Thomas Harris already foresaw its great importance in building; see his _Three Periods of English Architecture_, London, 1894.

Footnote 434:

See ‘Ornament und Verbrechen’ in Loos, A., _Trotzdem: Gesammelte Aufsätze 1900-1930_, Innsbruck, 1931, first published in the _Neue Freie Presse_ in January 1908. A French translation of the article appeared in _L’Esprit nouveau_, I (1920), 159-68.

Footnote 435:

Considering that Wright’s open planning had by no means matured while Loos was in Chicago, American influence (if any) came probably from the houses of the Shingle Style. Because of his close _rapport_ with England, however, one may assume that the influence of Baillie Scott’s plans was more important; while the treatment of interior trim comes closest to Voysey, as has been noted.

Footnote 436:

The recurrent suggestions of Richardsonian influence in Europe in the nineties are not yet adequately explained. Townsend in England knew of Richardson’s work from American and English publications, and there was in England one house by Richardson, Lululund at Bushey, Herts, now largely destroyed except for the entrance. This was designed shortly before Richardson’s death for Sir Hubert von Herkomer, who had painted his portrait, and executed without supervision. Boberg had been for a short while in Chicago and Bruno Schmitz (1858-1916) in Indianapolis; but there are others whose work also seems somewhat Richardsonian, such as Theodor Fischer, who certainly had not. Berlage did not visit America until 1911, when it was Wright’s work that most impressed him. He and Fischer might, of course, have known Richardson’s buildings from publications. For foreign publications of Richardson’s work before 1900, see pp. 333-5 in the 1961 edition of my Richardson book.

Footnote 437:

See Berlage, H. P., _Gedanken über den Stil in der Baukunst_, Leipzig, 1905; _Grundlagen und Entwicklung der Architektur_, Amsterdam, 1908; German ed., Berlin, 1908; and _Studies over Bouwkunst_, Rotterdam, 1910.

Footnote 438:

The work of K. P. C. de Bazel (1869-1923), a pupil of Cuijpers who represents a rather different stream in Dutch architecture of the early twentieth century, is especially close to that of the contemporary German leaders but hardly at all related to Expressionism. His massive office building for the Nederlandsche Handel Maatschappij in Amsterdam of 1917-23 is quite similar to Behrens’s nearly contemporary office blocks in Hanover and Düsseldorf, but much more intricate and inventive in its brick-and-stone detail.

Footnote 439:

Although it is unlikely that de Klerk actually owed anything to the sets that Bakst, Benois, and others were designing for the Ballet Russe, the visual investiture of the Diaghilev productions certainly had a loosening effect on Western European taste in these years just before the First World War. For the first time Russia impinged visually on European art, but that impingement had only an oblique effect on architecture, for the art that was exported was not, of course, very architectural.

Footnote 440:

See _American Architect_, CXXVIII (5 October 1925).

Footnote 441:

See ‘The American Radiator Company Building, New York’, _American Architect_, CXXVI (1924), 467-84.

Footnote 442:

It is this that makes it so difficult to decide which architects should be discussed in Chapters 18-21 and which in Chapter 24. No two critics will agree, but most now recognize that the boundary line is not a sharp one. For this reason in _Modern Architecture_, published thirty years ago, I labelled the work of this generation ‘The New Tradition’ and did not then reject the work of the Scandinavians as too ‘traditional’ to be classed, broadly at least, with that of Wright, Perret, Behrens, Wagner, and Loos, as I have done here.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 22 - Notes

Footnote 443:

That is, Barr proposed the title _The International Style_ for the book prepared by myself and Philip Johnson to go with this Exhibition, drawing the word ‘international’ from the title of Gropius’s _Internationale Architektur_. For various reasons the name ‘International Style’ has often been castigated since 1932; yet it is still recurrently used, with or without apology, by many critics. The term is, for example, used in English and in a rather unflattering sense by Gillo Dorfles in _L’ Architettura moderna_—one chapter is entitled ‘“L’lnternational Style” ed i nuovi regionalismi’—with no indication of its origin. Since this term had rather generally acquired a pejorative meaning, I avoided using it as far as possible in this book, preferring the vaguer but less controversial phrase ‘modern architecture of the second generation’ despite its clumsiness. For the possible claim that the original meaning of ‘International Style’, as used by Barr, Johnson, and myself, still retained some validity in the early fifties, see my article ‘The “International Style” Twenty Years After’, _Architectural Record_, CX (1952), 89-97. (See Epilogue.)

Footnote 444:

See Roggero, M. F., _Il Contributo di Mendelsohn alla evoluzione dell’ architettura moderna_, Milan [1952].

Footnote 445:

See Jaffé, H. L. C., _De Stijl, 1917-1931_, London [1956], and Zevi, B., _Poetica dell’ architettura neoplastica_, Milan, 1935.

Footnote 446:

See Mendelsohn, E., _Bauten und Skizzen_, Berlin, 1923; and English ed., _Buildings and Sketches_, London, 1923.

Footnote 447:

The whole question of Expressionism in architecture is still a difficult one despite a renewed critical interest in the intentions and achievements of the architects influenced by the movement (see Note [422] to Chapter 20). As will shortly be noted, Gropius and Mies van der Rohe were both briefly affected by Expressionist concepts and used forms of distinctly Expressionist character in the years 1919-21.

Footnote 448:

An earlier Goetheanum of 1913-20, which was destroyed by fire, had been largely of wood. It was not at all like Mendelsohn’s Einstein Tower but still somewhat Art Nouveau. See Brunati and Mendini, _Steiner_, Milan [n.d.], for both versions. See also Steiner, R., _Wege zu einem neuen Baustil_, Dornach, 1926 (Eng. trans., London-New York, 1927), and _Der Baugedanke des Goetheanum_, Dornach, 1932; and Rosenkrantz, A., _The Goetheanum as a New Impulse in Art_, [London, n.d.].

Footnote 449:

For a late reassessment of that influence, see Jordan, R. F., ‘Dudok’, _Architectural Review_, CXV (1954), 237-42.

Footnote 450:

It is probable that Mendelsohn’s early projects and also the tower had some influence on the later development of ‘streamlining’ in industrial design. See Banham, R., ‘Machine-aesthetic’, _Architectural Review_, CXVII (1955), 224-8.

Footnote 451:

This sort of enclosure has come of late to be called a ‘curtain-wall’. Some of the skyscrapers of the nineties in Chicago, most notably Beman’s Studebaker Building of 1895 and Holabird & Roche’s McClurg Building of 1899, approached it very closely, yet in them the actual supporting piers remained in the façade plane as at the Fagus Factory and thus the ‘curtain’ was interrupted, not continuous horizontally. The first true example of the curtain-wall applied to a large urban structure followed within a few years after the Fagus Factory, and certainly with no influence from it; this is the Hallidie Building in San Francisco, completed by Willis Polk (1867-1924) in 1918 immediately after the First World War. But see p. 238 and Note 9 to

## Chapter 14 for Oriel Chambers of 1864-5.

Footnote 452:

See Note [454], below.

Footnote 453:

See Popp, J., _Bruno Paul_, Munich.

Footnote 454:

To those historians of modern architecture who find its relevant prehistory largely in the technical developments of the previous century and a half, the Fagus Factory is the more important; to those who accept that the architecture of the mid twentieth century had aesthetic as well as technical roots, the special ‘classicism’ of Mies’s project, like Wright’s contact with the American ‘Academic Tradition’ of the nineties, seems perhaps at least as important. The thesis of the late Emil Kaufmann, adumbrated in a series of books from his _Von Ledoux bis Le Corbusier_ of 1931 to his posthumous _Architecture in the Age of Reason_ of 1955, stresses—indeed overstresses—the relevance of the theories and projects of the revolutionary architects of the late eighteenth century to the new architecture of the twentieth century. If it ever becomes possible to subsume historically under a single rubric the ‘traditional’ and the ‘advanced’ architecture of the first quarter of the twentieth century, the ‘classicism’ and ‘academicism’ of Wright, Wagner, Mies, and Le Corbusier as well as of Perret and Behrens will prove as significant as the technical feats of those architects who erected the last great railway stations in these years and the tallest skyscrapers. Lest the issue seem a simple dichotomy, Mies’s respect for Berlage’s structuralism should also be remembered at this point; as also the Expressionism which influenced both Gropius and Mies after the First World War, not to speak of Wright’s ‘Baroque’ phase of 1914-24.

Footnote 455:

Le Corbusier’s first publication was an _Étude sur le mouvement d’art décoratif en Allemagne_, La Chaux de Fond, 1912, giving evidence of his closer _rapport_ with Central European than with Parisian currents at this point in his life.

Footnote 456:

For the early work of Le Corbusier, hitherto almost entirely unpublished, see _Perspecta_, 6 (1961), 28-33.

Footnote 457:

Le Corbusier’s relations with Loos were very close for a year or two after Loos settled in Paris in 1923. But he undoubtedly knew of Loos’s work well before the First World War, having been for a short stay in Vienna in 1908, at which time he had already begun to react against the dominant decorative emphasis in the work of Hoffmann and the Wiener Werkstätte.

Footnote 458:

As has been noted, Garnier’s book on the ‘Cité Industrielle’ did not appear until 1918, but his projects had long been generally known in Paris. His work attracted more attention in the early twenties, thanks to his own publication _Les Grands Travaux de la ville de Lyon_, Paris, 1919, and an article by Jean Badovici, ‘L’Œuvre de Tony Gamier’, in _L’Architecture vivante_, Autumn-Winter 1924.

Footnote 459:

See Note [455], _supra_.

Footnote 460:

See Note [445], _supra_. Also relevant is my book _Painting towards Architecture_, New York, 1948.

Footnote 461:

Several years earlier, possibly even before he actually joined _De Stijl_, Rietveld had designed and executed a remarkable ‘Red-Blue’ chair in which many aspects of the three-dimensional aesthetic of the group were already realized.

Footnote 462:

The first number is not dated and may have appeared in 1919.

Footnote 463:

See Bayer, H., and others, _Bauhaus 1919-28_, New York, 1938.

Footnote 464:

The mixed character of Bauhaus theory and production in the early years is well illustrated in Gropius, W., _Staatliches Bauhaus, 1919-1923_, Munich [1923].

Footnote 465:

The effect of van Doesburg’s visit to Germany remains controversial. Although Gropius denies, or at any rate minimizes, its importance to the Bauhaus group—and, indeed, personally disliked van Doesburg—critics and historians mostly believe the influence of Neoplasticism to have been at least as significant at this point as that of the Russian Constructivists. See Zevi, B., ‘L’Insegnamento critico di Theo van Doesburg’, _Metron_, VII (1951), 21-37.

It is not without significance that Gropius included in 1926 Oud’s _Holländische Architektur_ in the series of Bauhausbücher which he edited. That certainly proves a special respect for the _De Stijl_-nurtured modern architecture of Holland at the time.

Footnote 466:

Like Le Corbusier’s window-walls, these horizontal strip-windows, usually called ‘ribbon-windows’ in English, can be traced back at least as far as Shaw’s work of the sixties, though all the intervening links are not yet clearly identified. Their analogy with ‘Chicago windows’ is closest and, indeed, Sullivan’s Carson, Pirie & Scott façades, with their wide windows crisply cut in the smooth terracotta wall-plane, are amazingly premonitory of the characteristic new window-banded façades of the twenties. Before this time window-strips were always subdivided by relatively heavy mullions in the plane of the wall, as in Voysey’s houses, or set behind ranges of colonnettes or other supports, as they were still in the clerestory of Wright’s Unity Church.

Footnote 467:

This special vision of America is well illustrated in books of the twenties by European architectural visitors; see Mendelsohn, E., _Amerika. Bilderbuch eines Architekten_, Berlin, 1926, and Neutra, R., _Wie baut Amerika?_ Stuttgart, 1927.

Footnote 468:

The preoccupation with the shapes of things that move—which architecture does not—reflects doubtless the motion-aesthetic of the Futurists. How well Le Corbusier knew the pre-war projects of the brilliant Italian Antonio Sant’Elia is not clear. But his own aesthetic is less related to the particular forms found in Sant’Elia’s designs for buildings than to generalized Futurist dreams of speed and technical modernity. See also Note [495] to Chapter 23.

Footnote 469:

However, Le Corbusier’s sketch books make evident that he had used his eyes to advantage on a very wide range of buildings in the Mediterranean world on his early travels, from peasant huts to the Parthenon, the Campidoglio, and Versailles. His attitude towards the past was very different, evidently, from that of the Futurists, of which a somewhat closer reflection is to be found in the doctrines of Gropius.

Footnote 470:

Throughout this period, and indeed down to 1943, Le Corbusier practised in partnership with his cousin Pierre Jeanneret (b. 1896); technically most of his work should therefore be attributed to ‘Le Corbusier & Jeanneret’. No attempt has yet been made by critics or historians to determine to what extent Jeanneret deserves credit for the work of the firm, nor to evaluate the work he has since done independently.

Footnote 471:

See Roth, A., _Zwei Wohnhäuser von Le Corbusier und Pierre Jeanneret_, Stuttgart, 1927.

Footnote 472:

The open plan of the Vaucresson house was more significant than the treatment of the exterior; that was ‘scraped’ of all features in a Loos-like way, yet still quite symmetrical, at least on the garden side.

The studio-house for Ozenfant, built on a very restricted corner site, was too special in its vertical organization to be very influential. Although today in good general condition, the very ‘industrial’ saw-toothed skylights on the roof have been removed and the terrace surrounded with a crude railing.

Footnote 473:

Confused by Le Corbusier’s description of his houses as _machines à habiter_ and the general ‘machinolatry’ of much of his early writing, many have mistakenly supposed that his was a machine-aesthetic. Just how to define his aesthetic other than by begging the question and merely calling it ‘Corbusian’ is, however, far from clear. For an analysis stressing Le Corbusier’s ‘formalism’, but not in the pejorative sense of Stalinist criticism, see Rowe, C., ‘Mannerism and Modern Architecture’, _Architectural Review_, CVII (1950), 289-300.

Footnote 474:

Le Corbusier’s personal system of proportion, first used for the 1916 house, gradually crystallized into a very detailed mathematical scheme which has been made generally available in his books _Le Modular_, Boulogne-sur-Seine, 1950; English ed., London, 1954; and _Modular II_, London, 1958.

Footnote 475:

See Moussinac, L., _Robert Mallet-Stevens_, Paris, 1931.

Footnote 476:

See _André Lurçat, projets et réalisations_, Paris, 1929.

Footnote 477:

In this connexion Schumacher’s school-building programme for Hamburg, initiated considerably earlier, is also significant.

Footnote 478:

See Le Corbusier, _Une maison—un palais_, Paris, 1928.

Footnote 479:

As building activity increased in Russia in the late twenties there was considerable experimentation, mostly along Constructivist lines, and a growing acceptance of the new architecture of the western world. This continued into the early thirties. But the competition for the Palace of the Soviets of 1931, to which Le Corbusier and Gropius as well as Poelzig and Mendelsohn were among the over two hundred architects who contributed projects, represented a major turning point. This was won by the Soviet architect B. M. Iofan (b. 1891) with a very monumental scheme designed in a variant of that megalomaniac mode of scraped classicism which had been popular for large-scale architecture in Germany under the Second Reich and which returned to favour in 1933 under the Third Reich, just after Iofan’s scheme triumphed. By 1937 this relatively severe project had been elaborated by Iofan and his collaborators W. G. Helfreich and V. A. Schouko until it rose—and to the same tremendous height as the Empire State Building in New York—like a telescopic wedding-cake, terminating in a statue of Stalin a third as tall as the whole structure below.

Henceforth the ‘scraping’ of Classical forms ceased and Stalinist architecture in general aimed at an elaboration that was at once Baroque and Victorian in its coarse exuberance and in its illiterate use of academic clichés all but forgotten in the western world. During the later Stalinist period official Soviet criticism decried the modern architecture of the western world as a manifestation of ‘bourgeois formalism’.

Since the end of that period the denunciation of its characteristic architecture by Soviet leaders implies some return towards the contact with advanced western ideas which was evident in the twenties and early thirties. For the production of the Stalinist period, which would rate anywhere else as very low-grade ‘traditional’ architecture, see _Dreissig Jahre sowjetische Architektur in der RSFSR_, Leipzig, 1950.

Footnote 480:

More than rivalling Gropius’s housing in its extent was that carried out by Ernst May (b. 1887) for the city of Frankfort at this same time.

Footnote 481:

Gropius and Meyer first used a smooth rendered surfacing on a theatre at Jena that they remodelled in 1922; this was not otherwise very significant, except that no trace of Expressionist influence, still strong in work of the year before, remained. As will appear shortly, Mies van der Rohe proposed to use brick in a design for a country house in 1922; and all the private houses he built in the twenties are of that material, though his housing blocks at Berlin and Stuttgart were rendered.

Footnote 482:

Although Mies is not, as his second name van der Rohe might suggest, Dutch, he has always been an admirer of Berlage, and his very high standards for brickwork derive from his knowledge of Dutch building, both old and new, acquired during the year spent in The Hague designing the Kröller house.

Footnote 483:

Much of Le Corbusier’s prolific writing of the twenties has already been mentioned in the text and earlier notes; for Gropius’s, see Cook, R. V., _A Bibliography: Walter Gropius, 1919-1950_, Chicago [1951].

Footnote 484:

For example, the German translation of _Vers une architecture_ appeared in 1926; the English translation in 1927 in both English and American editions. Of _Urbanisme_, the American edition is of 1927, the English of 1929, and the German of 1929 also. Mies wrote, in effect, nothing at all.

Footnote 485:

As has been noted, Oud, at the invitation of Gropius, wrote _Holländische Architektur_ (No. 10 in the series of Bauhausbücher) and also published many articles in Dutch, German, English, and French magazines.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 23 - Notes

Footnote 486:

See Note [443], Chapter 22.

Footnote 487:

Le Corbusier’s moulded _pilotis_ supporting the Swiss Hostel in Paris (Plate 165B) are two years later; those under the Unité d’Habitation, which resemble Aalto’s much more closely, were designed after the Second World War.

Footnote 488:

A hospital built in 1926-8 by Adolf Schneck and Richard Döcker (b. 1894) in Stuttgart is actually earlier but hardly comparable in quality.

Footnote 489:

For Howe’s earlier ‘traditional’ work see _Monograph of the Work of Mellor, Meigs and Howe_, New York, 1923; for an assessment of his later career, _see also_ Zevi, B., ‘George Howe’, _Journal of the American Institute of Architects_, XXIV (1955), 176-9. For the PFSF see Jordy, W., and Stern, R., _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XXII (1962), entire June issue.

Footnote 490:

The same description applies roughly to Aalto’s work down to the buildings mentioned above, it may be noted.

Footnote 491:

See Jordan, R. F., ‘Lubetkin’, _Architectural Review_, CXVIII (1955), 36-44.

Footnote 492:

Technically the architects were J. Alan Slater and Arthur Hamilton Moberly (1885-1952) with Crabtree as designing associate. Professor Sir Charles Herbert Reilly (1874-1948), head of the School of Architecture at Liverpool, which he made one of the most advanced schools in the world in these years, was consultant. It is curious to recall that he had earlier been a consultant on Devonshire House in Piccadilly in London, built in 1924-6 by Carrère & Hastings (John M., 1858-1911; and Thomas, 1860-1929), when the influence of American ‘traditional’ architecture was strong in London (see Chapter 24).

Footnote 493:

Amyas Douglas Connell (b. 1901), Basil Robert Ward (b. 1902), and Colin Anderson Lucas (b. 1906); _see also_ Note [492] to this chapter.

Footnote 494:

For the late twenties and early thirties, when the newer architecture first penetrated England, see Pevsner, N., ‘Nine Swallows—No Summer’, _Architectural Review_, XCI (1942), 109-12, and Hitchcock, H.-R., ‘England and the Outside World’, _Architectural Association Journal_, LXXII (1956), 96-7 (this is a special number of the _Journal_ devoted to the work of Connell, Ward & Lucas, 1927-39). See also Richards, J. M., ‘Wells Coates’, _Architectural Review_, CXXIV (1958), 357-60.

Footnote 495:

If Expressionism in architecture is an episode difficult to assess despite the real achievement of several of the architects involved with it (see Chapters 20 and 22), Futurism is impossible to evaluate at all since it was only a ‘might have been’. Italian modern architecture since the thirties does not derive from the projects of Sant’Elia, many of which are only now being studied for the first time. Sant’Elia and the other architects associated with Futurism wished to cut all links with the past, Terragni re-linked the ‘International Style’—usually called _architettura razionale_ under the Fascist regime—with Italian tradition, a line which several Italian modern architects have followed since. See Sartoris, A., _Sant’Eliae l’architettura futurista_, Rome, 1943; Tentori, F., ‘Le Origini Liberty di Antonio Sant’Elia’, _L’Architettura_, 1(1955), 206-8; Banham, R., ‘Futurism and Modern Architecture’, _Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects_, LXIV (1957), 129-38, and ‘Futurist Manifesto’, _Architectural Review_, CXXVI (1959), 77-80. The greater part of Sant’Elia’s drawings are now available for study at the Villa Olmo, Como.

Footnote 496:

See Le Corbusier, _UN Headquarters_, New York, 1947.

Footnote 497:

See Rudolph, P., ‘Walter Gropius et son école’, _L’Architecture d’ aujourd’hui_, XX (1950), 1-116.

Footnote 498:

Credit for initiating the reform at Harvard must be given to the Dean of the school there, Joseph Hudnut (b. 1886), who invited Gropius to join his faculty.

Footnote 499:

Louis Skidmore (1897-1962), Nathaniel Owings (b. 1903), John O. Merrill (b. 1896).

Footnote 500:

Ralph Rapson is Dean of the School of Architecture at the University of Minnesota, it is relevant to note at this point.

Footnote 501:

See Le Corbusier, _The Marseilles Block_, London, 1953.

Footnote 502:

See Le Corbusier, _Œuvre complète_, [VI, 1957], 50-107.

Footnote 503:

See Stirling, J., ‘Ronchamp’, _Architectural Review_, CXIX (1956), 155-61. The best coverage is in Le Corbusier, _Œuvre complète_, [VI, 1957], 16-43, however. See also Le Corbusier, _The Chapel at Ronchamp_, New York, 1957.

Footnote 504:

In collaboration with the French architect B.-H. Zehrfuss and the Italian engineer Pierluigi Nervi.

Footnote 505:

For a late published statement of Gropius’s principles, see _The Scope of Total Architecture_, New York, 1955, London [1956], although there is little there not to be found already in his other writings of the last forty years. See also Note [482] to Chapter 22.

Footnote 506:

Curiously enough Philip Johnson’s glass house in New Canaan, Conn., which obviously derives in several ways from the Farnsworth house, was actually erected first, in 1949; but of course Mies’s plan and model of the Farnsworth house had already been published by Johnson in his book _Mies van der Rohe_ in 1947.

Footnote 507:

Although their design follows closely that of the two blocks built in 1949-51, the construction is actually of ferro-concrete, not steel.

Footnote 508:

Thanks to the continuance in the early post-war years of the reaction of the thirties, the buildings at the south end of the Coolsingel appear to present a curious inversion of chronology. While Dudok’s Bijenkorf Department Store of 1929-30, now demolished to open the view to the harbour, was characteristic of the ambiguity of much of his work, this ‘baby skyscraper’ of 1939-40 and also the contiguous Exchange by J. F. Staal (1879-1940), designed in 1929 and built in the thirties, appear much more ‘modern’ to mid-century eyes than the first big banks and so forth rebuilt after the war—these look as if they had been designed at least a generation ago. But the wave of reaction soon ran its course; the Lijnbaan of 1953-4, a complete shopping street by van den Broek & Bakema running parallel to the Coolsingel, if not the new Bijenkorf by Breuer of 1955-7, was among the most advanced projects carried out anywhere in the mid fifties.

Footnote 509:

Oud’s prominent Resistance Monument on the Dam in Amsterdam opposite the Royal Palace, completed in 1956, is hardly a work of architecture but rather an enlarged pedestal and frame for sculpture. Such a commission and the honorary doctorate he received in 1955 from the University of Leiden none the less indicate the high respect he was receiving in Holland by that time.

Footnote 510:

See Note [511] to Chapter 24.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

## CHAPTER 24 - Notes

Footnote 511:

‘Historicism’ is a clumsy term matched by no viable adjective. It does, however, express more accurately than ‘traditionalism’, ‘revivalism’, or ‘eclecticism’ a certain aspect of architecture which was common throughout the last five hundred years, and not unknown in early ages. Quite simply, it means the re-use of forms borrowed from the architectural styles of the past, usually in more or less new combinations. It is late in this book to introduce a definition; but historicism is always so much taken for granted in discussing the architecture of the nineteenth century that it is only after the appearance as an alternative of exclusive modernism, rejecting all borrowed forms, that the older attitude needs to be isolated in order to discuss its continuance in this century. Characteristically, the architecture of two-thirds of the period covered by this book balanced a moderate sort of modernism with more or less of historicism. This is as true of most of the novel projects of Ledoux in the 1780s as it is of a considerable part of the work of the first generation of modern architects. However, only the traditional architects remained firmly attached to the concept of historicism in the twentieth century; men like Behrens and Perret were, through much of their careers at least, in highly significant revolt against it, quite as Ledoux had been in his day.

Footnote 512:

See Östberg, R., _The Stockholm Town Hall_, Stockholm, 1929.

Footnote 513:

The decline is perhaps to be related at its start to the death of their associate Joseph M. Wells in 1890. Never a member of the firm, he had nevertheless been personally responsible for the design of the Villard houses (Plate 109B) that had opened the academic phase of the firm’s career. Later, the death of White and the retirement of McKim in the early years of the new century removed the two controlling personalities from the firm. Henceforth the office was a ‘plan-factory’, with high professional standards undoubtedly, but without direction other than that already established in the late eighties and nineties by the founders. In 1961 the firm finally came to an end with the death of J. K. Smith, the only surviving partner who had known the founders.

Footnote 514:

J.-L. Pascal (1837-1920), a pupil of Gilbert who had worked with Garnier on the Opéra and succeeded Labrouste at the Bibliothèque Nationale, had at least as high a reputation, and was the teacher of several prominent English and American architects. His severe academic style, emulated later by his Anglo-Saxon pupils, was well established by the time he designed the Faculty of Medicine at Bordeaux in the early nineties. Nénot was one of Pascal’s French pupils.

Footnote 515:

William Adams Delano (b. 1874) was a pupil of Laloux; Chester Holmes Aldrich (b. 1878) was also trained at the École des Beaux-Arts. For an attempt to reassess the ‘traditional’ houses of this period, see Lane, J., ‘The Period House in the Nineteen-Twenties’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XX (1961), 185-90.

Footnote 516:

The controversy as to which firm should receive credit for the design of the Grand Central Station once waxed hot. The organization of the tremendous complex was probably the work of Charles A. Reed (?-1911) and Allen H. Stem (1856-1931), who had already built other big stations in Troy, N.Y., in 1901-4 and in Tacoma in 1909-11—as, moreover, their successors, Felheimer & Wagner, have done also: Buffalo and North Station, Boston, both begun in 1927, and Cincinnati in 1929-33. Whitney Warren (1864-1943) and Charles D. Wetmore (1866-1941), who also worked with Reed & Stem on the Detroit station completed in 1913, were doubtless more responsible for the dignified and well-scaled detailing. See Marshall, D., _Grand Central_, New York, 1946.

Footnote 517:

Books of the period, such as _American Architecture_ of 1928 by the distinguished architectural historian Fiske Kimball, or _American Architecture of Today_, also of 1928, by the then Dean of the Harvard University School of Architecture, G. H. Edgell, offer the later writer very little assistance. Kimball in the twenties was too ready to consider the continuance of the academic tradition assured—his chapter on Sullivan and Wright was entitled ‘The Lost Cause’—while Edgell offers such a miscellany of buildings that no clear picture emerges. Several attempts within the period to select its major monuments fixed on much the same lot as are given prominence here; but such selections hardly help to organize the work of the day in historical terms.

Footnote 518:

See Weisman, W., ‘Towards a New Environment: the Way of the Price Mechanism; the Rockefeller Centre’, _Architectural Review_, CVIII (1950), 399-405; ‘Who Designed Rockefeller Center?’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, X (1951), 11-17; and ‘The First “Mature” Skyscraper’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XVIII (1959), 54-9.

Footnote 519:

This firm were the successors of Richardson, and Henry Richardson Shepley, now its head, is Richardson’s grandson. See Forbes, J. D., ‘Shepley, Bulfinch, Richardson and Abbott, Architects—An Introduction’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XVII (1958), 19-31.

Footnote 520:

‘Compositionalism’ has been suggested by Colin Rowe as a name for the style-phase with which this section deals. Composition was then conceived by many architects and theorists as an absolute to which the re-use of any sort of stylistic forms could be accommodated. It is at least open to suspicion, for example, that Rogers’s Pierson College at Yale was designed originally with Gothic forms and then re-cast as Neo-Georgian. Later eyes than our own will doubtless find it possible to identify the period characteristics of traditional work of the twenties in the way many critics already feel able to do with the nineteenth-century revivals. The period-designation ‘President Harding’ may some day perhaps be as meaningful as ‘General Grant’, if hardly comparable to ‘Victorian’!

Footnote 521:

Harvey Wiley Corbett (b. 1873), a pupil of Pascal at the École des Beaux-Arts, was probably the designer.

Footnote 522:

Carrère was dead by this time, but the firm name remained unchanged; as has been mentioned earlier, Professor Sir Charles Reilly was consultant, and he probably made some real contribution to the design.

Footnote 523:

C.-F. Mewès (1858-1947) and Arthur Joseph Davis (1878-1951), both pupils of Pascal, like Corbett.

Footnote 524:

Gropius is very insistent on the desirability of anonymous team-work in architecture. His TAC, the one-time Tecton group in London, and other firms with similar names are examples of this ideal which aims, of course, at something rather different from the anonymity of the large commercial firms. Theirs is fact rather than ideal.

Footnote 525:

See Weisman, W., ‘Group Practice’, _Architectural Review_, CXIV (1953), 145-51.

Footnote 526:

Sir John J. Burnet (1857-1938), another pupil of Pascal at the École; Thomas S. Tait (1882-1954).

Footnote 527:

See Pevsner, N., ‘Building with Wit; the Architecture of Sir E. Lutyens’, _Architectural Review_, CX (1951), 217-25.

Footnote 528:

See Purdom, C. B., _The Garden City_, London, 1913; and Culpin, E. G., _The Garden City Movement Up-to-Date_, London, 1913.

Footnote 529:

See Macfadyen, D., _Sir Ebenezer Howard and the Town Planning Movement_, London, 1933.

Footnote 530:

See Unwin, R., _Town Planning and Modern Architecture at the Hampstead Garden Suburb_, London, 1909.

Footnote 531:

Some of the other large buildings were the work of Sir Herbert Baker, who was also responsible for another dominion capital at Pretoria in South Africa. Of his rival’s intervention at New Delhi Lutyens remarked characteristically, ‘It was my Bakerloo’.

Footnote 532:

See Drysdale, G., ‘The Work of Leonard Stokes’, _Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects_, XXXIV (1927), 163-77, and Roberts, H. V. M., ‘Leonard Aloysius Stokes’, _Architectural Review_, C (1946), 173-7.

Footnote 533:

The New-Zealand-born Connell’s High-and-Over in Bucks of 1927 is very superior, however, to Tait’s Le Chateau at Silverend in Essex, and a year earlier.

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## CHAPTER 25 - Notes

Footnote 534:

No sharp distinction has been made in this book between architects and engineers. Such engineers, from Telford to Candela, as have been responsible for work of architectural pretension deserve to be considered as architects, and monographic works on several of them will be found in the Bibliography.

Footnote 535:

See San Francisco Museum of Art, _Domestic Architecture of the San Francisco Bay Region_, San Francisco, 1949.

Footnote 536:

See Banham, P. R., ‘New Brutalism’, _Architectural Review_, CXVIII (1955), 355-61. See also Banham’s articles in the _Architectural Review_ on ‘Neo-Liberty’, a term introduced by Paolo Portoghesi.

Footnote 537:

Consideration of such topics of current controversial interest more properly belongs in periodicals or special critical works than in a general history, but see the Epilogue.

Footnote 538:

There is something symptomatic in the fact that the younger men, whether architects or critical writers, are mostly content to revive early controversial attitudes of the preceding half century rather than to offer anything really new. (See Epilogue.)

Footnote 539:

See Holford, W., ‘The Precincts of St Paul’s’, _Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects_, LXIII (1956), 232-4.

Footnote 540:

See Aarhus Universitet, _Hovedbygningen_, Aarhus [n.d.].

Footnote 541:

The term skyscraper in this context is to be understood as meaning a very tall office building. Many European housing blocks, such as are discussed below, would have been considered skyscrapers a generation ago, and the same is true of much urban office building in central areas which often today rivals in height the German examples of the twenties mentioned in Chapter 20. However, the significant skyscrapers of the post-war period are much taller than this, and—perhaps equally important—they characteristically stand in their own space, rising sheer from some sort of plaza at their base.

Footnote 542:

9 James Cubitt (b. 1913), Stephan Buzas (b. 1915), Fello Atkinson (b. 1919), and Richard Maitland (b. 1917).

Footnote 543:

Osvaldo Luis Torro (b. 1914) and Miguel Ferrer (b. 1915).

Footnote 544:

Architects designing for prefabrication and above all structural experimenters such as Buckminster Fuller were certainly far bolder and more revolutionary in their concepts of the house as ‘controlled environment’ than are most of those who have so far built airports.

Footnote 545:

The death of Eero Saarinen in 1961 brought to a premature end the career of a typical, indeed a very leading, post-war architect whose mature production dated very largely from the years since the mid fifties when this book was originally written. (See Epilogue.)

Monographs on such different architects as Philip Johnson and the firm of Skidmore, Owings & Merrill should appear almost coincidentally with this second edition and others are already in preparation.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY

For the study of the architecture of the western world since about 1840 no sources are more valuable than the professional periodicals. To provide a comprehensive list with full bibliographical details would require an inordinate amount of space and many technicalities because of the complicated way such publications start and stop, initiate new series, merge, and change title. However, it may be helpful to mention, without giving any descriptive details, a few that are especially valuable to the historian. In England, the _Builder_, the _Building News_, and later the _Architectural Review_ are most useful; in France the _Revue générale de l’architecture_, the _Encyclopédie d’architecture_, the _Gazette des architectes_, and later _L’Architecture vivante_ and _L’Architecture d’aujourd’ hui_. In Austria-Hungary the _Allgemeine Bauzeitung_ may be cited. For the United States, the _American Architect and Building News_ and later the _Architectural Record_, the _Architectural Forum_, and _Progressive Architecture_ cover the field from the eighteen-seventies to the present. The American _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_ has devoted more articles to the nineteenth century than other learned journals. Particular articles in the above-mentioned and other periodicals are for the most part merely referenced in the Notes, except those that provide the equivalent of separate monographs on certain architects; such are listed here.

_General Works_ are subdivided, necessarily with some overlap, into those covering the _Nineteenth Century_ (including, in fact, the later decades of the eighteenth also) and those covering the _Twentieth Century_. There follow rubrics for separate countries or groups of countries. Finally come the monographs on individual architects arranged, regardless of country or period, alphabetically by architect.

GENERAL WORKS

NINETEENTH CENTURY

BENEVOLO, L. _Storia dell’architettura moderna_, 1. Bari, 1960.

CASSOU, J., LANGUI, E., and PEVSNER, N. _The Sources of Modern Art._ London, 1962. (In America, _Gateway to the Twentieth Century_, New York, 1962.)

FERGUSSON, J. _History of the Modern Styles of Architecture._ London, 1862.

GIEDION, S. _Space, Time and Architecture._ Cambridge, Mass., 1941. Later editions to 1954.

GIEDION, S. _Spätbarocker und romantischer Klassizismus._ Munich, 1922.

HAMLIN, A. D. F. _A Text-Book of the History of Architecture._ New York, 1896.

HAUTECOEUR, L. _Rome et la renaissance de l’antiquité à la fin du XVIII^e siècle._ Paris, 1912.

HITCHCOCK, H.-R. _Modern Architecture, Romanticism and Reintegration._ New York, 1929.

JOSEPH, D. _Geschichte der Baukunst des XIX. Jahrhunderts._ 2 vols. Leipzig [1910].

KAUFMANN, E. _Architecture in the Age of Reason._ Cambridge, Mass., 1955.

KAUFMANN, E. _Von Ledoux bis Le Corbusier._ Vienna, 1933.

LAVEDAN, P. _Histoire de l’urbanisme_, vol. 3. Paris, 1952.

LUNDBERG, E. _Arkitekturens Formspråk_, IX, _Vägen till Nutiden, 1715-1850_, Stockholm, 1960; X, _Nutiden, 1850-1960_, Stockholm, 1961.

MADSEN, S. T. _Sources of Art Nouveau._ Oslo, 1956; New York, 1956.

MEEKS, C. L. V. _The Railroad Station._ New Haven, 1956.

MICHEL, A. (ed.). _Histoire de l’art depuis les premiers temps chrétiens jusqu’à nos jours_, VII, 2; VIII, 1, 2, 3. Paris, 1924-9.

MUTHESIUS, H. _Stilarchitekur und Baukunst: Wandlungen der Architektur im XIX. Jahrhundert._ Mülheim-Ruhr, 1902.

PAULI, G. _Die Kunst des Klassizismus und der Romantik._ Berlin, 1925.

PEVSNER, N. _An Outline of European Architecture._ Harmondsworth, 1942; seventh edition 1963.

PEVSNER, N. _Pioneers of Modern Design._ London, 1936; 3rd ed., Harmondsworth, 1960.

RÉAU, L. _Histoire de l’expansion de l’art français_, vol. 1-. Paris, 1924-.

REHME, W. _Die Architektur der neuen freien Schule._ Leipzig, 1901.

RICHARDSON, E. P. _The Way of Western Art, 1776-1914._ Cambridge, Mass., 1939.

SUMMERSON, J. N. _Heavenly Mansions._ London, 1949.

TWENTIETH CENTURY

BANHAM, R. _Theory and Design in the First Machine Age._ London, 1960.

BEHRENDT, W. C. _Modern Building._ New York, 1937.

BENEVOLO, L. _Storia dell’architettura moderna_, II. Bari, 1960.

_Contemporary Architecture of the World 1961._ Tokyo [1961].

DORFLES, G. _L’Architettura moderna._ Milan, 1954.

GIEDION, S. _A Decade of Contemporary Architecture._ Zurich, 1954.

GROPIUS, W. _Internationale Architektur._ Munich, 1925.

HAMLIN, T. F. _Forms and Functions of Twentieth-Century Architecture._ 4 vols. New York, 1952.

HITCHCOCK, H.-R., and JOHNSON, P. _The International Style: Architecture since 1922._ New York, 1932.

JAFFÉ, H. L. C. _De Stijl, 1917-1931._ London [1956].

JOEDICKE, J. _A History of Modern Architecture._ New York, 1959.

PLATZ, G. _Die Baukunst der neuesten Zeit._ Berlin, 1927.

RICHARDS, J. M. _An Introduction to Modern Architecture._ 9th ed. Harmondsworth, 1962.

ROTH, A. _The New Architecture._ Zurich, 1940.

SARTORIS, A. _Introduzione alla architettura moderna._ Milan, 1949.

SARTORIS, A. _Gli Elementi dell’architettura funzionale._ Milan, 1935.

SFAELLOS, C. _Le Fonctionnalisme dans l’architecture contemporaine._ Paris, 1952.

SMITH, G. E. K. _The New Architecture of Europe._ Cleveland and New York [1961]; Harmondsworth, 1962.

WHITTICK, A. _European Architecture in the Twentieth Century._ 2 vols. London, 1950-3.

ZEVI, B. _Storia dell’architettura moderna._ Turin, 1950.

INDIVIDUAL COUNTRIES

AUSTRIA-HUNGARY

DEHIO, G. _Handbuch der deutschen Kunstdenkmäler: Österreich._ Vienna, 1933.

LÜTZOW, C. von, and TISCHLER, L. (eds). _Wiener Neubauten._ 2 vols. Vienna, 1876-80.

RADOS, J. _A magyar klasszicista építészet hagyományai._ Budapest, 1953.

SCHMIDT, J., and TIETZE, H. _Wien._ Vienna [1954].

TIETZE, H. _Wien._ Leipzig, 1928.

VIRGIL, B. _A magyar klasszicismus epiteszete._ Budapest, 1948.

_Wiener Neubauten in Stil der Sezession._ 6 vols. Vienna, 1908-10.

WIRTH, Z. _Ceśká architektura, 1800-1920._ Prague, 1922.

BRITISH DOMINIONS

_Architecture in Australia_ (catalogue of exhibition at the R.I.B.A.). London, 1956.

BEIERS, G. _Houses of Australia._ Sydney [1948].

BOYD, R. ‘Victorian Victorian’, _Architectural Review_, CXIV (1953), 105-8.

BOYD, R. _Australia’s Home._ Carlton, 1952.

CASEY, M., and others (eds.). _Early Melbourne Architecture._ Melbourne, 1953.

CLARKE, B. F. L. _Anglican Cathedrals outside the British Isles._ London, 1958.

‘Commonwealth I, II’, (special issues of) _Architectural Review_, October 1959; July 1960.

GOWANS, A. _Looking at Architecture in Canada._ Toronto, 1958.

GRIFFITHS, G. N. _Some Houses and People in New South Wales._ Sydney, 1948.

HERMAN, M. _The Early Australian Architects and their Work._ Sydney and London, 1954.

HERMAN, M. _The Architecture of Victorian Sydney._ Sydney, 1956.

HUBBARD, R. ‘Canadian Gothic’, _Architectural Review_, CXVI (1954), 102-8.

SHARLAND, M. _Stones of a Century._ Hobart, 1942.

TURNBULL, C. _The Charm of Hobart._ Sydney, 1949.

WILSON, H. _Old Colonial Architecture in New South Wales and Tasmania._ Sydney, 1924.

FRANCE

BARQUI, F. _L’Architecture moderne en France._ Paris [n.d.]

BAUCHAL, C. _Nouveau dictionnaire biographique et critique des architectes français._ Paris, 1887.

BRAULT, E. _Les Architectes par leurs œuvres._ 3 vols. Paris [n.d.].

CALLIAT, V. _Parallèle des maisons de Paris._ 2 vols. Paris, 1850, 1864.

GOURLIER, BIET, GRILLON, and TARDIEU. _Choix d’édifices publics projetés et construits en France depuis le commencement du XIX siècle._ 3 vols. Paris, 1825-36.

GROMORT, G. _L’Architecture_ in _Histoire générale de l’art français de la Révolution à nos jours_, II. Paris, 1922.

HAUTECOEUR, L. _Histoire de l’architecture classique en France_, vols IV-VII. Paris, 1952-7.

KRAFFT, J., and THIOLLET, F. _Choix des plus jolies maisons de Paris et des environs._ Paris, 1849.

MAGNE, L. _L’Architecture française du siècle._ Paris, 1889.

NORMAND, L. M. _Paris moderne ou choix de maisons._ 3 vols. Paris, 1837, 1843, 1849.

RÉAU, F. L. _L’Œuvre de baron Haussmann._... Paris, 1954.

ROCHEGUDE, Marquis de. _Guide pratique à travers le vieux Paris._ New ed. Paris, 1923.

VACQUIER, J. _Le Style empire._ Paris, 1911.

GERMANY

BEENKEN, H. _Schöpferische Bauideen der deutschen Romantik._ Mainz, 1942.

_Berlin und seine Bauten._ Berlin, 1877.

CONRADS, U. _Neue deutsche Architektur 1955-1960._ Stuttgart, 1962.

DEHIO, G. _Handbuch der deutschen Kunstdenkmäler._ 5 vols. Berlin, 1905 _et seq._; new ed., ed. E. Gall, so far, 11 vols. Berlin and Munich, 1935 _et seq_.

HERRMANN, W. _Deutsche Baukunst des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts_, vol. 1 Breslau, 1932.

HOFFMANN, H., and KASPAR, K. _Neue deutsche Architektur._ Teufen [1956].

LANDSBERGER, F. _Die Kunst der Goethezeit._ Leipzig, 1931.

LICHT, H. _Architektur Deutschlands._ 2 vols. Berlin, 1882.

MEBES, P. _Um 1800._ Munich, 1918.

SCHMALENBACH, F. _Jugendstil._ Würzburg, 1935.

SCHMITZ, H. _Berliner Baumeister vom Ausgang des 18. Jahrhunderts._ Berlin, 1914.

SCHUMACHER, F. _Strömungen in der deutschen Baukunst seit 1800._ Leipzig, 1935.

VOGEL, H. _Deutsche Baukunst des Klassizismus._ Berlin, 1937.

GREAT BRITAIN

BOASE, T. S. R. _English Art 1800-1870._ London, 1959.

CASSON, H. _An Introduction to Victorian Architecture._ London, 1948.

CASSON, H. _New Sights of London._ London, 1938.

CLARK, K. _The Gothic Revival._ London, 1928; second edition 1950.

CLARKE, B. F. L. _Church Builders of the Nineteenth Century._ London, 1938.

COLVIN, H. M. _A Biographical Dictionary of English Architects, 1660-1840._ London, 1954.

EASTLAKE, C. L. _A History of the Gothic Revival._ London, 1872.

GOODHART-RENDEL, H. S. _English Architecture since the Regency._ London, 1953.

GOODHART-RENDEL, H. S. ‘Rogue Architects of the Victorian Era’, _Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects_, LVI (1949), 251-9.

HARBRON, D. _Amphion or the Nineteenth Century._ London and Toronto, 1930.

HITCHCOCK, H.-R. _Early Victorian Architecture in Britain._ 2 vols. New Haven and London, 1954.

HITCHCOCK, H.-R. and others. _Modern Architecture in England._ New York, 1937.

HUSSEY, C. _English Country Houses: Mid-Georgian 1760-1800._ London [1956].

HUSSEY, C. _English Country Houses: Late Georgian 1800-1840._ London [1960].

HUSSEY, C. _The Picturesque._ London, 1927.

MCCALLUM, I. _A Pocket Guide to Modern Buildings in London._ London, 1951.

MILLS, E. _The New Architecture in Great Britain, 1946-53._ London, 1953.

MUTHESIUS, H. _Das englische Haus._ 3 vols. Berlin, 1904-5.

MUTHESIUS, H. _Die englische Baukunst der Gegenwart._ Leipzig and Berlin, 1900.

MUTHESIUS, H. _Die neuere kirchliche Baukunst in England._ Berlin, 1902.

PEVSNER, N. _The Buildings of England._ 25 vols. to date. London, 1951 _et seq_.

PILCHER, D. _The Regency Style, 1800 to 1830._ London, 1947.

RICHARDSON, A. E. ‘Architecture’, in G. M. Young (ed.), _Early Victorian England, 1830-1865_, II, 177-248. London, 1934.

RICHARDSON, A. E., and GILL, C. L. _Regional Architecture of the West of England._ London, 1924.

RICHARDSON, A. E. _Monumental Classic Architecture in Great Britain and Ireland._ London, 1914.

Royal Institute of British Architects. _One Hundred Years of British Architecture, 1851-1951._ London, 1951.

SUMMERSON, J. _Georgian London._ London, 1945.

SUMMERSON, J. _Ten Years of British Architecture._ London, 1956.

TURNOR, R. _The Smaller English House, 1500-1939._ London, 1952.

TURNOR, R. _Nineteenth Century Architecture in Britain._ London, 1950.

WHIFFEN, M. _Stuart and Georgian Churches outside London._ London, 1947-8.

GREECE

RUSSACK, H. H. _Deutsches Bauen in Athen._ Berlin, 1942.

HOLLAND

BEHNE, A. _Holländische Baukunst in der Gegenwart._ Berlin, 1922.

BLIJSTRA, R. _Netherlands Architecture since 1900._ Amsterdam, 1960.

MIERAS, J., and YERBURY, F. _Dutch Architecture of the XXth century._ London, 1926.

_Moderne Bouwkunst in Nederland._ 20 vols. Rotterdam, 1932.

_Nederland bouwt in Baksteen, 1800-1940._ (Catalogue of exhibition at Boijmans Museum.) Rotterdam, 1941.

OUD, J. J. P. _Holländische Architektur._ Munich, 1926.

THIENEN, F. van. ‘De bouwkunst van de laatste anderhalve eeuw’, in H. van Gelder (ed), _Kunstgeschiedenis der Nederlanden_, II. Utrecht, 1955.

WATTJES, J. G. _Amsterdams bouwkunst en stadsschoon, 1306-1942._ Amsterdam, 1944.

WATTJES, J. G. _Niewe Nederlandsche bouwkunst_, 2 vols. Amsterdam, [1923]-1926.

YERBURY, F. R. _Modern Dutch Buildings._ London, 1931.

ITALY

BOTTONI, P. _Antologia di edifici moderni in Milano._ Milan, 1954.

CARACCIOLO, E. ‘Architettura dell’ottocento in Sicilia’, _Metron_, VII (Oct. 1952), 29-40.

GOLFIERI, E. _Artisti neoclassici in Faenza._ Faenza, 1929.

KIDDER SMITH, G. E. _Italy Builds._ London, 1955.

OLIVERO, E. _L’Architettura in Torino durante la prima metà dell’ Ottocento._ Turin [1952].

PAGANI, C. _Architettura italiana oggi._ Milan, 1955.

PICA, A. _Architettura moderna in Italia._ Milan 1941.

REGGIORI, F. _Milano 1800-1943._ Milan, 1947.

SASSO, C. _Storia de’ monumenti di Napoli e degli architetti che li edificavano_, II. Naples, 1858.

LATIN AMERICA

ARANGO, J., and MARTINEZ, C. _Arquitectura en Colombia._ Bogotá, 1951.

CETTO, M. _Modern Architecture in Mexico._ New York, 1961.

GOODWIN, P. _Brazil Builds._ New York, 1943.

HITCHCOCK, H.-R. _Latin American Architecture since 1945._ New York, 1955.

MINDLIN, H. _Modern Architecture in Brazil._ New York [1956].

MYERS, I. E. _Mexico’s Modern Architecture._ New York, 1952.

RUSSIA AND POLAND

_Architektura polska do poowy XIX wicku._ Warsaw, 1952.

DMOCHOWSKI, Z. _The Architecture of Poland._ London, 1956.

GRABAR, I. _Istoriya Russkagho iskusstva_, vols 3 and 4. Moscow [1912, 1915].

HAMILTON, G. H. _The Art and Architecture of Russia_, Chapters 21-23. Harmondsworth, 1954.

LO GATTO, E. _Gli architetti del secolo XIX a Pietroburgo e nelle tenute imperiali._ Rome, 1943.

NEKRASOV, A. _Russki Ampir._ Moscow, 1935.

SCANDINAVIA

AHLBERG, H. _Swedish Architecture of the Twentieth Century._ London, 1925.

_Architecture in Finland_ (R.I.B.A. Exhibition Catalogue). London, 1957.

CORNELL, E. _Ny svensk byggnadskonst._ Stockholm, 1950.

_Danish Architecture of Today_ (catalogue of exhibition at R.I.B.A.). London, 1950.

_Denmark_ (special issue on Danish Architecture). _Architectural Review_, CIV (1948).

_Finland bygger._ Helsinki, 1953.

FINSEN, H. _Ung danske arkitektur, 1930-45._ Copenhagen, 1947.

FISKER, K., and YERBURY, F. R. _Modern Danish Architecture._ London, 1927.

HAHR, A. _Architecture in Sweden._ Stockholm, 1939.

HIORT, E. _Nyere dansk bygningskunst._ Copenhagen, 1949.

HULTEN, B. _Building Modern Sweden._ Harmondsworth, 1951.

_Industriearkitektur i Finland._ Helsinki, 1952.

JACOBSON, T. P., and SILOW, S. (eds.). _Ten Lectures on Swedish Architecture._ Stockholm, 1949.

JOSEPHSON, R. ‘Svensk 1800-tals architektur’, in _Teknisk Tidskrift_, LII (1922), 1-64.

LANGBERG, H. _Hvem byggede hvad; Gamle og nye bygninger i Danmark._ Copenhagen, 1952.

LINDBLOM, A. _Sveriges Konsthistoria fran fortnid till nutid_, III. Stockholm, 1946.

LINDAHL, G. _Högkyrkligt Lågkyrkligt Frikyrkligt i Svensk architektur, 1850-1950._ Stockholm, 1955.

MADSEN, S. T. _To Kongeslot._ Oslo, 1952.

MADSEN, S. T. ‘Dragestilen. Honnør til en hånet stil’, _Vestlandske Kunstindustrimuseums Årbok, 1949-1950_, 19-62. Bergen, 1952.

MILLECH, K. _Danske arkitektur stromninger, 1850-1950._ Copenhagen, 1951.

_New Architecture in Sweden._ Stockholm, 1961.

_New Swedish Architecture._ Stockholm, 1940.

SMITH, G. E. K. _Sweden Builds._ London, 1950.

WANSCHER, L. E. _Danmarks arkitektur._ Copenhagen, 1943.

SWITZERLAND

BILL, M. _Moderne Schweizer Architektur, 1925-1945._ Basel, 1949.

JENNY, H. _Kunstführer der Schweiz, ein Handbuch ... der Baukunst._ Bern, 1945.

_Moderne Schweizer Architektur_, 10 vols. Basel, 1940-6.

SMITH, G. E. K. _Switzerland Builds._ London, 1950.

SPAIN

CALZADA, A. _Historia de la arquitectura española._ Barcelona, 1933.

CIRICI-PELLICER, P. _El arte modernista catalán._ Barcelona, 1951.

FLORES, C. _Arquitectura española contemporanea._ Madrid, 1961.

LOZOYA, Marqués de (CONTRAVERAS, J. de). _Historia del arte hispánico_, v. Barcelona, 1949.

UNITED STATES

_Artistic Homes._ New York, 1886.

ANDREWS, W. _Architecture, Ambition and Americans._ New York, 1955.

ANDREWS, W. _Architecture in America, A Photographic History._ New York, 1960.

CONDIT, C. _The Rise of the Skyscraper._ Chicago, 1952.

CONDIT, C. _American Building Art—The Nineteenth Century._ New York, 1960.

CONDIT, C. _American Building Art—The Twentieth Century._ New York, 1961.

DENMARK, E. R. _Architecture of the Old South._ Atlanta [1926].

DOWNING, A., and SCULLY, V. J. _The Architectural Heritage of Newport, Rhode Island._ Cambridge, Mass., 1952.

EDGELL, G. H. _The American Architecture of Today._ New York and London, 1928.

FITCH, J. M. _American Building; the Forces that Shape It._ Boston, 1948.

FRARY, I. T. _Early Homes of Ohio._ Richmond, 1936.

HAMLIN, T. F. _The American Spirit in Architecture._ New Haven, 1926.

HAMLIN, T. F. _Greek Revival Architecture in America._ New York, 1944.

HITCHCOCK, H.-R. _A Guide to Boston Architecture, 1637-1954._ New York, 1954.

HITCHCOCK, H.-R. _American Architectural Books._ 2nd ed. Minneapolis, 1962.

HITCHCOCK, H.-R. _Rhode Island Architecture._ Providence, 1939.

HITCHCOCK, H.-R., and DREXLER, A. _Built in U.S.A.: Post-War Architecture._ New York, 1952.

HOWLAND, R., and SPENCER, E. _The Architecture of Baltimore._ Baltimore, 1953.

KILHAM, W. _Boston after Bulfinch._ Cambridge, Mass., 1946.

KIMBALL, F. _American Architecture._ Indianapolis, 1928.

KIMBALL, F. _Domestic Architecture of the American Colonies and of the Early Republic._ New York, 1922.

JACKSON, H. _New York Architecture, 1650-1952._ New York, 1952.

MCCALLUM, I. _Architecture U.S.A._ London, 1959.

MOCK, E. (ed.). _Built in U.S.A., 1932-1944._ New York, 1944.

MUMFORD, L. _The Brown Decades._ 2nd ed. New York [1955].

MUMFORD, L. _Roots of Contemporary American Architecture._ New York, 1952.

MUMFORD, L. _From the Ground Up._ New York [1957].

MUMFORD, L. _Sticks and Stones._ New York, 1924.

NEWCOMB, R. _Architecture of the Old North-West Territory._ Chicago, 1950.

NEWCOMB, R. _Architecture in Old Kentucky._ Urbana, Ill., 1953.

NICHOLS, F. D., and JOHNSTON, F. B. _The Early Architecture of Georgia._ Chapel Hill, 1957.

‘One Hundred Years of Significant Building’, _Architectural Record_, CXIX (June 1956-June 1957) (a series of monthly features).

RANDALL, F. _History of the Development of Building Construction in Chicago._ Urbana, Ill., 1949.

ROOS, F. J. _Writings on Early American Architecture._ Columbus, 1943.

SCHUYLER, M. _American Architecture._ New York, 1892; new ed. (ed. W. Jordy and R. E. Coe), Cambridge, Mass., 1961.

SCULLY, V. J. _The Shingle Style._ New Haven, 1955.

SHELDON, G. W. _Artistic County Seats._ 2 vols. New York, 1886-[7].

TALLMADGE, T. _Architecture in Old Chicago._ Chicago, 1941.

TALLMADGE, T. _The Story of Architecture in America._ London [1928].

TUNNARD, C. _American Skyline._ Boston, 1955.

WHITE, T. (ed.). _Philadelphia Architecture in the Nineteenth Century._ Philadelphia, 1953.

MONOGRAPHS

AALTO

Gutheim, F. _Alvar Aalto._ New York, 1960.

Labò, G. _Alvar Aalto._ Milan, 1948.

Neuenschwander, E. and C. _Finnish Buildings; Atelier Alvar Aalto, 1950-1951._ Erlenbach-Zurich, 1954.

ADAM

Adam, R., and J. _The Works in Architecture._ 2 vols. London, 1778-9.

Bolton, A. T. _Robert and James Adam._ 2 vols. London, 1922.

Fleming, J. _Robert Adam and his Circle._ London, 1962.

ASPLUND

Zevi, B. _E. Gunnar Asplund._ Milan, 1948.

Holmdahl, G., Lind, S., and Ödeen, K. (eds.).

_Gunnar Asplund Architect, 1885-1940._ Stockholm [n.d.].

BAKER

Baker, Sir Herbert. _Architecture and Personalities._ London, 1944.

BALLU

Sédille, P. _Théodore Ballu._ Paris, 1886.

BALTARD

Decouchy, M. _Victor Baltard._ Paris, 1875.

BARRY (C.)

Barry, A. THE LIFE AND WORKS OF SIR C. BARRY. London, 1867.

BELLUSCHI

Stubblebine, J. _The Northwest Architecture of Pietro Belluschi._ New York, 1953.

BEHRENS

Cremers, P. _Peter Behrens, sein Work von 1900 bis zur Gegenwart._ Essen, 1928.

Hoeber, F. _Peter Behrens._ Munich, 1913.

BENTLEY

De L’Hôpital, W. _Westminster Cathedral and its Architect._ 2 vols. London [1919].

Scott-Moncrieff, W. _John Francis Bentley._ London, 1924.

BERLAGE

Gratama, J. _Dr H. P. Berlage Bouwmeester._ Rotterdam, 1925.

BINDESBØLL

Bramsen, H. _Gottlieb Bindesbøll, Liv og Arbejder._ Copenhagen, 1959.

BLOMFIELD

Blomfield, Sir Reginald. _Memoirs of an Architect._ London, 1932.

BÖHM

Schwarz, R. ‘Dominikus Böhm’, _Kunst und Werkform_, VIII (1955), 72-86.

BONATZ

Tamms, F. _Paul Bonatz._ Stuttgart, 1937.

BOULLÉE

Kaufmann, E. _Three Revolutionary Architects, Boullée, Ledoux, and Lequeu._ Philadelphia, 1952.

Rosenau, H. _Boullée’s Treatise on Architecture._ London, 1953.

BREUER

Argan, G. C. _Marcel Breuer: disegno industriale e architettura._ Milan [1957].

Blake, P. _Marcel Breuer: Architect and Designer._ New York, 1949.

BRODRICK

Wilson, T. B. _Two Leeds Architects: Cuthbert Brodrick and George Corson._ Leeds, 1937.

BRONGNIART

Silvestre de Sacy, J. _Alexandre-Théodore Brongniart._ Paris, 1940.

BRUNEL

Rolt, L. T. C. _Isambard Kingdom Brunel._ London, 1957.

BULFINCH

Place, C. _Charles Bulfinch: Architect and Citizen._ Boston, 1925-7.

BURGES

Pullan, A. _Architectural Designs of William Burges._ 2 vols. London, 1883-7.

BURNHAM

Moore, C. _Daniel H. Burnham._ 2 vols. Boston and New York, 1921.

_The Architectural work of Graham, Anderson, Probst & White ... and their Predecessors D. H. Burnham & Co. and Graham, Burnham & Co._ 2 vols. London, 1933.

BUTTERFIELD

Summerson, J. N. ‘William Butterfield’, _Architectural Review_, LXIV (Dec. 1945), 166-75. Reprinted in _Heavenly Mansions_, 159-76.

CRAM

Maginnis, C. _The Work of Cram and Ferguson, Architects._ New York, 1929.

CUIJPERS

Cuijpers, J. T. J. _Het Werk van Dr P. J. H. Cuijpers, 1827-1917._ Amsterdam, 1917.

DAVIS, A. J. See TOWN.

D’ARONCO

Nicoletti, M. _Raimondo D’Aronco._ Milan, 1955.

DELANO & ALDRICH

Delano & Aldrich. _Portraits of Ten Country Houses._ New York, 1924.

DESPREZ

Wollin, N. _Desprez en Italie._ Malmö, 1934.

Wollin, N. _Desprez en Suède._ Stockholm, 1939.

DUC

Sédille, P. _Joseph-Louis Duc, architecte (1802-1879)._ Paris, 1879.

DUDOK

_Willem M. Dudok._ [Amsterdam, 1954].

EIDLITZ

Schuyler, M. ‘A Great American Architect: Leopold Eidlitz’, _Architectural Record_, XXIV (1908), 163-79, 277-92,364-78.

EIFFEL

Bresset, M. _Gustave Eiffel, 1832-1923._ Milan [1957].

Prevost, J. _Eiffel._ Paris, 1929.

FISCHER

Karlinger, H. _Theodor Fischer: ein deutscher Baumeister._ Munich, 1937.

FISKER

Langkilde, H. E. _Arkitekten Kay Fisker._ Copenhagen, 1960.

FURNESS

Campbell, W. ‘Frank Furness, an American Pioneer’, _Architectural Review_, CX (1951), 310-15.

GARNIER (C.)

Moyaux, C. _Notice sur la vie et les œuvres de M. Charles Garnier._ Paris, 1899.

GARNIER (T.)

Badovici, J., and Morancé, A. _L’Œuvre de Tony Garnier._ Paris, 1938.

Veronesi, G. _Tony Garnier._ Milan, 1948.

GÄRTNER

Moninger, H. _Friedrich Gärtner._ Munich, 1882.

GAUDÍ

Bergós, J. _Antoni Gaudí l’home i l’obra._ Barcelona, 1954.

Collins, G. _Antonio Gaudí._ New York, 1960.

Martinell, C. _Gaudinismo._ Barcelona, 1954.

Ráfols, J. _Gaudí._ Barcelona, 1929; 2nd ed., 1952.

Sweeney, J. J., and Sert, J. Ll. _Antoni Gaudí._ New York [1960].

GENTZ

Doebber, A. _Heinrich Gentz._ Berlin, 1916.

GILBERT

Gilbert, Cass. _Reminiscences and Addresses._ New York, 1935.

GILLY

Oncken, A. _Friedrich Gilly._ Berlin, 1935.

Rietdorf, A. _Gilly_, 1940.

GODWIN

Harbron, D. _The Conscious Stone: The Life of Edward William Godwin._ London, 1949.

GOODHUE

Whitaker, C. (ed.). _Bertram Grosvenor Goodhue—Architect and Master of Many Arts._ New York, 1925.

GREENWAY

Ellis, M. H. _Francis Greenway: his Life and Times._ Sydney and London, 1949.

GROPIUS (W.)

Argan, G. C. _Walter Gropius e la Bauhaus._ Turin, 1951.

Giedion, S. _Walter Gropius._ London, 1954.

Gropius, W. _The New Architecture and the Bauhaus._ New York, 1936.

HANSEN (C. F.)

Hansen, C. F. _Samling af forskjellige offentlige og private Bygninger._ Copenhagen, 1847.

Langberg, H. _Omkring C. F. Hansen._ [Copenhagen] 1950.

Rubow, J. _C. F. Hansens arkitektur._ Copenhagen, 1936.

HANSEN (T.)

Niemann, J., and Feldegg, F. von. _Theophilus Hansen und seine Werke._ Vienna, 1893.

HASTINGS

Gray, D. _Thomas Hastings: Architect._ Boston, 1933.

HERHOLDT

Fisker, K. _Omkring Herholdt._ Copenhagen, 1943.

HITTORFF

Normand, A. _Notice historique sur ... J. I. Hittorff, architecte._ Paris, 1867.

HITZIG

Hitzig, F. _Ausgeführte Bauwerke._ 2 vols. Berlin [1850].

HOFFMANN

Kleiner, L. _Josef Hoffmann._ Berlin, 1927.

Veronesi, G. _Josef Hoffmann._ Milan, 1956.

Weiser, A. _Josef Hoffmann._ Geneva, 1930.

HOOD

North, A. T. _Raymond M. Hood._ New York, 1931.

HOOKER

Root, E. _Philip Hooker._ New York, 1929.

HORTA

Madsen, S. T. ‘Horta: Works and Style of Victor Horta before 1900’, _Architectural Review_, CXVIII (1955), 388-92.

HOWE

(See Note [486] to Chapter 23.)

HÜBSCH

Hübsch, H. _Bauwerke._ Karlsruhe, 1842.

Valdenaire, A. _Heinrich Hübsch._ Karlsruhe, 1926.

HUNT

Schuyler, M. ‘The Works of the late Richard Morris Hunt’, _Architectural Record_, V (Oct.-Dec., 1895), 97-180.

HUVÉ

Le Normand. _Notice biographique sur J.-J.-M. Huvé._ Paris, 1853.

JACOBSEN

Pederson, J. _Arkitekten Arne Jacobsen._ Copenhagen, 1957.

JAPPELLI

Carta Mantiglia, R. ‘Giuseppe Jappelli, Architetto’, _L’Architettura_, I (1955), 538-51.

Pevsner, N. ‘An Italian Miscellany—Pedrocchino and Some Allied Problems’, _Architectural Review_, CXX (1957).

JEFFERSON

Kimball, F. _Thomas Jefferson, Architect._ Boston, 1916.

JOHNSON

Jacobus, J. M. _Philip Johnson._ New York, 1962.

KAHN

Nelson, G. _The Industrial Architecture of Albert Kahn_. New York, 1939.

KLENZE

Klenze, L. von. _Sammlung architektonischer Entwürfe._ 10 pts. Munich, 1830-50.

DE KLERK

Kramer, P. _M. de Klerk._ _Wendingen_, VI (1924), Nos 4 and 5.

KORNHÄUSEL

Thausig, P. _Joseph Kornhäusel._ Vienna, 1916.

LABROUSTE (H.)

_Souvenirs d’Henri Labrouste: notes recueillies et classées part ses enfants._ Paris, 1928.

LALOUX

Cox, H. B. ‘Victor Laloux; the Man and his Work’, _Architects’ Journal_, LI (1920), 555-7.

LANGHANS

Hinrichs, W. _Karl Gotthard Langhans._ Strassburg, 1909.

LATROBE

Hamlin, T. F. _Benjamin Henry Latrobe._ New York, 1955.

LAUGIER

Herrmann, W. _Laugier and Eighteenth-Century French Theorists._ London, 1962.

LE BAS

Vaudoyer, L. _Notice historique sur la vie et les ouvrages de M. Le Bas._ Paris, 1869.

LE CORBUSIER

Boesiger, W. _Le Corbusier & Pierre Jeanneret: Œuvre complète._ 6 vols. Zurich, 1937-57.

Boesiger, W., and Ginsberger, H. _Le Corbusier His Works 1910-1960._ New York, 1960.

Le Corbusier. _My Work._ London [1960].

Papadaki, S. (ed.). _Le Corbusier: Architect, Painter, Writer._ New York, 1948.

LEDOUX

Ledoux, C.-N. _L’Architecture considérée sous le rapport de l’art, des mœurs et de la législation._ Paris, 1804. [Reprint], 2 vols. Paris, 1962.

Raval, M., and Moreux, J.-Ch. _C.-N. Ledoux._ Paris, 1945.

See also BOULLÉE.

LEFUEL

Delaborde, H. _Notice sur la vie et les ouvrages de M. Lefuel._ Paris, 1882.

LETHABY

‘William Richard Lethaby, 1857-1931; a Symposium in Honour of his Centenary’, _Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects_, LXIV (1957), 218-25.

LOOS

Glück, F. _Adolf Loos._ Paris, 1931.

Kulka, H. _Adolf Loos, das Werk des Architekten._ Vienna, 1931.

Münz, H. _Adolf Loos._ Milan, 1956.

LURÇAT

_André Lurçat; projets et réalisations._ Paris, 1929.

LUTYENS

Butler, A. S. G. _The Architecture of Sir Edwin Lutyens._ 3 vols. London, 1950.

Hussey, C. _The Life of Sir Edwin Lutyens._ London, 1950.

Weaver, L. _Houses and Gardens by E. L. Lutyens._ London, 1913. Second edition 1921.

MAILLART

Bill, M. _Robert Maillart._ Zurich, 1949.

MACKINTOSH

Howarth, T. _Charles Rennie Mackintosh and the Modern Movement._ London, 1952.

Pevsner, N. _Charles Rennie Mackintosh._ Milan, 1950.

MACKMURDO

Pevsner, N. ‘Arthur H. Mackmurdo’, _Architectural Review_, LXXXIII (1938), 141-3.

Pond, E. ‘Mackmurdo Gleanings’, _Architectural Review_, CXXVIII (1960), 429-31.

MCKIM, MEAD & WHITE

_A Monograph of the Work of McKim, Mead and White._ 4 vols. New York, 1915-25.

MENDELSOHN

Mendelsohn, E. _Briefe und Auszeichnungen eines Architekten_, 8 vols. 1961.

Whittick, A. _Eric Mendelsohn._ 2nd ed. London [1956].

_Erich Mendelsohn: das Gesamtschaffen des Architekten._ Berlin, 1930.

MENGONI

Ricci, G. _La Vita e le opere dell’ architetto Giuseppe Mengoni._ Bologna, 1930.

MESSEL

Behrendt, W. C. _Alfred Messel._ Berlin, 1911.

MIES VAN DER ROHE

Bill, M. _Ludwig Mies van der Rohe._ Milan, 1955.

Drexler, A. _Ludwig Mies van der Rohe._ New York, 1960.

Johnson, P. _Mies van der Rohe._ 2nd ed. New York, 1953; German ed., Stuttgart [n.d.].

Hilbersheimer, L. _Mies van der Rohe._ Chicago, 1956.

MILLS

Gallagher, H. _Robert Mills._ New York, 1935.

NASH

Davis, T. _The Architecture of John Nash._ London, 1960.

Summerson, J. N. _John Nash, Architect to George IV._ London, 1935.

NERVI

_The Works of Pierluigi Nervi._ [Stuttgart] and London, 1957.

Argan, G. C. _Pierluigi Nervi._ Milan, 1955.

Nervi, P. _Costruire correttamente._ Milan, 1955.

NESFIELD

Brydon, J. M. ‘William Eden Nesfield, 1835-1888’, _Architectural Review_, I (1897), 235-7, 283-95.

Creswell, B. ‘William Eden Nesfield, 1835-1888: An Impression’, _Architectural Review_, II (1897), 23-32.

NEUTRA

McCoy, E. _Richard Neutra._ New York, 1960.

Zevi, B. _Richard Neutra._ Milan, 1954.

_Richard Neutra, Buildings and Projects._ Zurich, 1955.

NEWTON

Newton, W. G. _The Work of Ernest Newton, R.A._ London, 1923.

NIEMEYER

Papadaki, S. _The Work of Oscar Niemeyer._ New York, 1950.

Papadaki, S. _Oscar Niemeyer: Works in Progress._ New York, 1956.

Papadaki, S. _Oscar Niemeyer._ New York, 1960.

OLBRICH

_Architektur von Professor Joseph M. Olbrich._ 3 vols. Berlin, 1903-7.

Lux, J. A. _Josef Maria Olbrich._ Vienna, 1919.

Veronesi, G. _Josef Maria Olbrich._ Milan, 1948.

OUD

_Architect J. J. P. Oud._ Rotterdam, 1951.

Hitchcock, H.-R. _J. J. P. Oud._ Paris, 1931.

Veronesi, G. _J. J. Pieter Oud._ Milan, 1953.

PAXTON

Chadwick, G. F. _The Works of Sir Joseph Paxton._ London [1961].

Markham, V. _Paxton and the Bachelor Duke._ London, 1935.

PERCIER AND FONTAINE

Fouché, M. _Percier et Fontaine._ Paris, 1905.

PERRET

Champigneulle, B. _Auguste Perret._ Paris, 1959.

Collins, P. _Concrete—The Vision of a New Architecture_, pt. III. London, 1959.

Jamot, P. _A.-G. Perret et l’architecture du béton armé._ Paris and Brussels, 1927.

Rogers, E. _Auguste Perret._ Milan, 1955.

_Architecture d’aujourd’hui_, 1932 (special issue on A. Perret).

PERSIUS

(See Note [53] to Chapter 2).

PIRANESI

Focillon, H. _G. B. Piranesi._ Paris, 1918.

PLATT

Cortissoz, R. _Monograph of the Work of Charles A. Platt._ New York, 1913.

POELZIG

Heuss, T. _Hans Poelzig._ Berlin, 1939.

PUGIN

Ferrey, B. _Recollections of A. N. Pugin and His Father A. Pugin._ London, 1861.

Gwynn, D. _Lord Shrewsbury, Pugin and The Catholic Revival._ London, 1946.

Trappes-Lomax, M. _Pugin, a Mediaeval Victorian._ London, 1932.

REIDY

Franck, K. _The Works of Affonso Eduardo Reidy._ New York, 1960.

Giedion, S. _The Works of Eduardo Affonso Reidy._ New York, 1960.

_Revett._ See STUART.

RICHARDSON

Hitchcock, H.-R. _The Architecture of H. H. Richardson and His Times._ 2nd ed. Hamden, Conn., 1961.

Van Rensselaer, M. G. _Henry Hobson Richardson and His Works._ Boston and New York, 1888.

RIETVELD

Brown, T. M. _The Work of G. Rietveld._ Utrecht, 1958.

ROHAULT DE FLEURY

Rohault de Fleury, C. _Œuvre._ Paris, 1884.

ROUX-SPITZ

Roux-Spitz, M. _Réalisations_, 1924-39. 2 vols. Paris [n.d.].

SAARINEN

Christ-Janer, A. _Eliel Saarinen._ Chicago, 1948.

SANT’ ELIA

Banham, P. R. ‘Sant’ Elia’, _Architectural Review_, CXVII (1955), 295-301; CXIX (1956), 343-4.

Mariani, L. ‘Disegni inediti di Sant’ Elia’, _L’Architettura_, I (1955-6), 210-15, 704-7.

SCHINKEL

Griesebach, A. _Karl Friedrich Schinkel._ Leipzig, 1924.

Pevsner, N. ‘Schinkel’, _Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects_, LIX (1952).

Rave, P., and others. _Karl Friedrich Schinkel Lebenswerk_, vol. [I]-. Berlin, 1941-.

Schinkel, K. F. _Sammlung architektonischer Entwürfe ... _ Berlin, 1819-40.

Wolzogen, A. F. von. _Aus Schinkels Nachlass._ 3 vols. Berlin, 1862-4.

SCOTT (G. G.)

Scott, G. G. _Personal and Professional Recollections by the late Sir George Gilbert Scott._ London, 1879.

SCOTT (BAILLIE)

Scott, M. H. B. _Houses and Gardens._ London, 1906.

SELVA

Bassi, E. _Giannantonio Selva, architetto veneziano._ Padua, 1936.

SEMPER

Ettlinger, L. _Gottfried Semper und die Antike._ Halle, 1937.

Semper, G. _Der Stil in den technischen und architektonischen Künsten._ Frankfurt, 1860.

SHAW

Blomfield, Sir R. _Richard Norman Shaw, R.A._ London, 1940.

Pevsner, N. ‘Richard Norman Shaw’, _Architectural Review_, LXXXIX (1941), 41-6.

See also WEBB.

SOANE

Bolton, A. T. _The Works of Sir John Soane._ London, 1924.

Bolton, A. T. _The Portrait of Sir John Soane._ London, 1927.

Stroud, D. _The Architecture of Sir John Soane._ London [1961].

Summerson, J. N. ‘Soane: the Case-History of a Personal Style’, _Journal of the Royal Institute of British Architects_, LVIII (1951), 83-9.

SOMMARUGA

_L’Architettura di Giuseppe Sommaruga._ Milan, 1908.

SOUFFLOT

Mondain-Monval, J. _Soufflot._ Paris, 1918.

STREET

Hitchcock, H. R. ‘G. E. Street in the 1850s’, _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XIX (1960), 145-72.

Street, A. E. _Memoir of George Edmund Street._ London, 1888.

STRICKLAND

Gilchrist, A. A. _William Strickland: Architect and Engineer._ Philadelphia, 1950.

Gilchrist, A. A. ‘Additions to William Strickland _Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians_, XIII (Oct., 1954), sup. 1-16.

STUART

Lawrence, L. ‘Stuart and Revett; their Literary and Architectural Careers’, _Journal of the Warburg Institute_, II (1938), 128-46.

SULLIVAN

Connely, W. _Louis Sullivan as He Lived._ New York, 1960.

Morrison, H. _Louis Sullivan._ New York, 1952.

Sullivan, L. H. _The Autobiography of an Idea._ New York, 1953.

Sullivan, L. H. _Kindergarten Chats._ New York, 1947.

TELFORD

Gibb, A. _The Story of Telford._ London, 1935.

_Life of Thomas Telford, Civil Engineer, written by himself._ London, 1838.

Rolt, L. T. C. _Thomas Telford._ London, 1958.

TERRAGNI

Labò, M. _Giuseppe Terragni._ Milan, 1947.

THOMSON

Law, G. ‘Greek Thomson’, _Architectural Review_, CXVI (1954), 307-16.

TOWN & DAVIS

Newton, R. H. _Town and Davis: Architects._ New York, 1942.

UPJOHN

Upjohn, E. _Richard Upjohn, Architect and Churchman._ New York, 1939.

VAN DE VELDE

Osthaus, K. _Van de Velde; Leben und Schaffen des Künstlers._ Hagen, 1920.

Casteels, M. _Henry van de Velde._ Brussels, 1932.

VIOLLET-LE-DUC

Gout, P. _Viollet-le-Duc; sa vie, son œuvre, sa doctrine._ Paris, 1914.

VORONIKHIN

Panov, V. A. _Arkhitektor A. N. Voronikhin._ Moscow, 1937.

See also ZAKHAROV.

VOYSEY

Betjeman, J. ‘Charles Francis Annesley Voysey; The Architect of Individualism’, _Architectural Review_, LXX (1931), 93-6.

Pevsner, N. ‘Charles Francis Annesley Voysey’, _Elsevier’s Maandschrift_, 1940, 343-55.

Brandon-Jones, J. ‘Voysey’, _Journal of the Architectural Association_ (1957).

WAGNER

Lux, J. A. _Otto Wagner._ Berlin, 1919.

Wagner, O. _Einige Skizzen, Projekte und ausgeführte Bauwerke._ 4 vols. Vienna, 1890-1922.

WAHLMAN

Lind, S., and others (eds.). _Verk av L. I. Wahlman._ Stockholm, 1950.

WALTER

Newcomb, R. ‘Thomas U. Walter’, _The Architect_, August, 1928.

WEBB

Lethaby, W. _Philip Webb and his Work._ London, 1935.

Brandon-Jones, J. ‘The Work of Philip Webb and Norman Shaw’, _Architectural Association Journal_, LXXI (1955), 9-21.

WEINBRENNER

Valdenaire, A. _Friedrich Weinbrenner, sein Leben und seine Bauten._ Karlsruhe, 1919.

WHITE

Baldwin, C. _Stanford White._ New York, 1931.

See also MCKIM, MEAD & WHITE

WRIGHT

Drexler, A. _The Drawings of Frank Lloyd Wright._ New York, 1962.

_Frank Lloyd Wright Drawings for a Living Architecture._ New York, 1960.

Gutheim, F. (ed.). _Frank Lloyd Wright on Architecture: Selected Writings, 1894-1940._ New York, 1941.

Hitchcock, H.-R. _In the Nature of Materials; the Buildings of Frank Lloyd Wright, 1887-1941._ New York, 1942.

Kaufmann, E. _Taliesin Drawings; Recent Architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright._ New York, 1952.

Kaufmann, E., and Raeburn, B. _Frank Lloyd Wright Writings and Buildings._ New York, 1960.

Manson, G. C. _Frank Lloyd Wright to 1910._ New York, 1958.

Wijdeveld, H. T. (ed.). _The Life Work of the American Architect, Frank Lloyd Wright._ Amsterdam, 1925.

Wright, F. Ll. _An Autobiography._ New York, 1943.

Wright, F. Ll. _A Testament._ New York, 1957.

_Ausgeführte Bauten und Entwürfe von Frank Lloyd Wright._ [Berlin, 1910].

_Frank Lloyd Wright: Ausgeführte Bauten_ (introduction by C. R. Ashbee). Berlin, 1911.

‘Frank Lloyd Wright’, _Architectural Forum_, XCIV (Jan., 1951), 73-108.

WYATT (J.)

Dale, A. _James Wyatt._ Oxford, 1956.

WYATT (M. D.)

Pevsner, N. _Matthew Digby Wyatt._ London, 1950.

ZAKHAROV

Arkin, D. _Zakharov i Voronikhin._ Moscow, 1953.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THE PLATES

------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Illustration:

1 J.-G. Soufflot and others: Paris, Panthéon (Sainte-Geneviève), 1757-90 ]

[Illustration:

2 (A) C.-N. Ledoux: Paris, Barrière de la Villette, 1784-9 ]

[Illustration:

2 (B) C.-N. Ledoux: Project for Coopery, _c._ 1785 ]

[Illustration:

(C) L.-E. Boullée: Project for City Hall, _c._ 1785 ]

[Illustration:

3 Sir John Soane: London, Bank of England, Consols Office, 1794 ]

[Illustration:

4 (A) Sir John Soane: London, Bank of England, Waiting Room Court, 1804 ]

[Illustration:

4 (B) C. F. Hansen: Copenhagen, Vor Frue Kirke, 1811-29 ]

[Illustration:

5 Benjamin H. Latrobe: Baltimore, Maryland, Catholic Cathedral, 1805-18 ]

[Illustration:

6 (A) Sir John Soane: Tyringham, Buckinghamshire, Entrance Gate, 1792-7 ]

[Illustration:

6 (B) Percier and Fontaine: Paris, Rue de Rivoli, 1802-55 ]

[Illustration:

7 J.-F.-T. Chalgrin and others: Paris, Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile, 1806-35 ]

[Illustration:

8 (A) Thomas de Thomon: Petersburg, Bourse, 1804-16 ]

[Illustration:

8 (B) A.-T. Brongniart and others: Paris, Bourse, 1808-15 ]

[Illustration:

9 (A) Friedrich Gilly: Project for monument to Frederick the Great, 1797 ]

[Illustration:

9 (B) Leo von Klenze: Munich, Glyptothek, 1816-30 ]

[Illustration:

10 (A) Friedrich Weinbrenner: Karlsruhe, Marktplatz, 1804-24 ]

[Illustration:

10 (B) Friedrich von Gärtner: Munich, Ludwigskirche and Staatsbibliothek, 1829-40 and 1831-40 ]

[Illustration:

11 (A) Heinrich Hübsch: Baden-Baden, Trinkhalle, 1840 ]

[Illustration:

11 (B) Wimmel & Forsmann: Hamburg, Johanneum, 1836-9 ]

[Illustration:

12 K. F. von Schinkel: Berlin, Schauspielhaus, 1819-21 ]

[Illustration:

13 K. F. von Schinkel: Berlin, Altes Museum, 1824-8 ]

[Illustration:

14 (A) K. F. von Schinkel: Potsdam, Court Gardener’s House, 1829-31 ]

[Illustration:

14 (B) G. L. F. Laves: Hanover, Opera House, 1845-52 ]

[Illustration:

15 Ludwig Persius: Potsdam, Friedenskirche, 1845-8 ]

[Illustration:

16 (A) Leo von Klenze: Regensburg (nr), Walhalla, 1831-42] ]

[Illustration:

16 (B) M. G. B. Bindesbøll: Copenhagen, Thorwaldsen Museum, Court, 1839-48 ]

[Illustration:

17 (A) Friedrich von Gärtner: Athens, Old Palace, 1837-41 ]

[Illustration:

17 (B) Peter Speeth: Würzburg, Frauenzuchthaus, 1809 ]

[Illustration:

18 (A) P.-F.-L. Fontaine: Paris, Chapelle Expiatoire, 1816-24 ]

[Illustration:

18 (B) L.-H. Lebas: Paris, Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, 1823-36 ]

[Illustration:

19 J.-B. Lepère and J.-I. Hittorff: Paris, Saint-Vincent-de-Paul, 1824-44 ]

[Illustration:

20 Douillard Frères: Nantes, Hospice Général, 1832-6 ]

[Illustration:

21 H.-P.-F. Labrouste: Paris, Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève, 1843-50 ]

[Illustration:

22 (A) É.-H. Godde and J.-B. Lesueur: Paris, extension of Hôtel de Ville, 1837-49 ]

[Illustration:

22 (B) F.-A. Duquesney: Paris, Gare de l’Est, 1847-52 ]

[Illustration:

23 (A) Giuseppe Jappelli and Antonio Gradenigo: Padua, Caffè Pedrocchi, 1816-31 ]

[Illustration:

23 (B) Antonio Niccolini: Naples, San Carlo Opera House, 1810-12 ]

[Illustration:

24 Raffaelle Stern: Rome, Vatican Museum, Braccio Nuovo, 1817-21 ]

[Illustration:

25 A. de. Simone: Caserta, Royal Palace, Sala di Marte, 1807 ]

[Illustration:

26 (A) Pietro Bianchi: Naples, San Francesco di Paola, 1816-24 ]

[Illustration:

26 (B) Giuseppe Frizzi and others: Turin, Piazza Vittorio Veneto, laid out in 1818, with Gran Madre di Dio by Ferdinando Bonsignore, 1818-31 ]

[Illustration:

27 (A) A. A. Monferran: Petersburg, St Isaac’s Cathedral, 1817-57 ]

[Illustration:

27(B) A. A. Monferran: Petersburg, Alexander Column, 1829; and K. I. Rossi: Petersburg, General Staff Arches, 1819-29 ]

[Illustration:

(C) A.-J. Pellechet: Paris, block of flats, 10 Place de la Bourse, 1834 ]

[Illustration:

28 (A) Sir John Soane: London, Royal Hospital, Chelsea, Stables, 1814-17 ]

[Illustration:

28 (B) Sir John Soane: London, Bank of England, Colonial Office, 1818-23 ]

[Illustration:

29 Alexander Thomson: Glasgow, Caledonia Road Free Church, 1856-7 ]

[Illustration:

30 John Nash: London, Piccadilly Circus and Lower Regent Street, 1817-19 ]

[Illustration:

31 London, Hyde Park Corner: Decimus Burton, Screen, 1825; Arch, 1825; William Wilkins, St George’s Hospital, 1827-8; Benjamin Dean Wyatt, Apsley House, 1828 ]

[Illustration:

32 John Nash and James Thomson: London, Regent’s Park, Cumberland Terrace. 1826-7 ]

[Illustration:

33 Sir Robert Smirke: London, British Museum, south front, completed 1847 ]

[Illustration:

34 (A) H. L. Elmes: Liverpool, St George’s Hall, 1841-54 ]

[Illustration:

34 (B) W. H. Playfair: Edinburgh, Royal Scottish Institution (_right_), National Gallery of Scotland, and Free Church College, 1822-36, 1850-4, and 1846-50 ]

[Illustration:

35 (A) Alexander Thomson: Glasgow, Moray Place, Strathbungo, 1859 ]

[Illustration:

35 (B) Sir Charles Barry: London, Travellers’ Club and Reform Club, 1830-2 and 1838-40 ]

[Illustration:

36 J. W. Wild: London, Christ Church, Streatham, 1840-2 ]

[Illustration:

37 (A) Sir Charles Barry: original design for Highclere Castle, Hampshire, _c._ 1840 ]

[Illustration:

37 (B) Cuthbert Brodrick: Leeds, Corn Exchange, 1860-3 ]

[Illustration:

38 (A) Robert Mills: Washington, Treasury Department, 1836-42 ]

[Illustration:

38 (B) Thomas Jefferson: Charlottesville, Va., University of Virginia, 1817-26 ]

[Illustration:

39 (A) Thomas U. Walter and others: Columbus, Ohio, State Capitol, 1839-61 ]

[Illustration:

39 (B) James C. Bucklin: Providence, R.I., Washington Buildings, 1843 ]

[Illustration:

40 William Strickland: Philadelphia, Merchants’ Exchange, 1832-4 ]

[Illustration:

41 Isaiah Rogers: Boston, Tremont House, 1828-9 ]

[Illustration:

42 (A) A. J. Davis: New York, Colonnade Row, 1832 ]

[Illustration:

42 (B) Russell Warren: Newport, R.I., Elmhyrst, _c._ 1833 ]

[Illustration:

43 (A) Henry A. Sykes: Springfield, Mass., Stebbins house, 1849 ]

[Illustration:

43 (B) Alexander Parris: Boston, David Sears house, 1816 ]

[Illustration:

44 Thomas A. Tefft: Providence, R.I., Union Station, begun 1848 ]

[Illustration:

45 Amherst, Mass., Amherst College, Dormitories, 1821-2, Chapel 1827 ]

[Illustration:

46 William Clarke: Utica, N.Y., Insane Asylum, 1837-43 ]

[Illustration:

47 (A) John Notman: Philadelphia, Atheneum, 1845-7 ]

[Illustration:

47 (B) J. M. J. Rebelo: Rio de Janeiro, Palacio Itamaratí, 1851-4 ]

[Illustration:

48 John Nash: Brighton, Royal Pavilion, as remodelled 1815-23 ]

[Illustration:

49 C. A. Busby: Gwrych Castle, near Abergele, completed 1815 ]

[Illustration:

50 (A) John Nash: Blaise Hamlet, near Bristol, 1811 ]

[Illustration:

50 (B) Thomas Rickman and H. Hutchinson: Cambridge, St John’s College, New Court, 1825-31 ]

[Illustration:

51 G. M. Kemp: Edinburgh, Sir Walter Scott Monument, 1840-6 ]

[Illustration:

52 (A) A. W. N. Pugin: Cheadle, Staffordshire, St Giles’s, 1841-6 ]

[Illustration:

52 (B) Sir G. G. Scott: Hamburg, Nikolaikirche, 1845-63 ]

[Illustration:

53 (A) Richard Upjohn: New York, Trinity Church, _c._ 1844-6 ]

[Illustration:

53 (B) Richard Upjohn: Utica, N.Y., City Hall, 1852-3 ]

[Illustration:

54 Sir Charles Barry: London, Houses of Parliament, 1840-65 ]

[Illustration:

55 (A) Salem, Mass., First Unitarian (North) Church, 1836-7 ]

[Illustration:

55 (B) F.-C. Gau and Théodore Ballu: Paris, Sainte-Clotilde, 1846-57 ]

[Illustration:

56 E.-E. Viollet-le-Duc: Paris, block of flats, Rue de Liège, 1846-8 ]

[Illustration:

57 (A) Alexis de Chateauneuf and Fersenfeld: Hamburg, Petrikirche, 1843-9 ]

[Illustration:

57 (B) G. A. Demmler and F. A. Stüler: Schwerin, Schloss, 1844-57 ]

[Illustration:

58 (A) John Nash: Brighton, Royal Pavilion, Kitchen, 1818-21 ]

[Illustration:

58 (B) Thomas Telford: Menai Strait, Menai Bridge, 1819-24 ]

[Illustration:

59 Thomas Telford: Craigellachie Bridge, 1815 ]

[Illustration:

60 (A) John A. Roebling: Niagara Falls, Suspension Bridge, 1852 ]

[Illustration:

60 (B) Thomas Hopper: London, Carlton House, Conservatory, 1811-12 ]

[Illustration:

61 Robert Stephenson and Francis Thompson: Menai Strait, Britannia Bridge, 1845-50 ]

[Illustration:

62 (A) Grisart & Froehlicher: Paris, Galeries du Commerce et de l’Industrie, section, 1838 ]

[Illustration:

62 (B) Robert Stephenson and Francis Thompson: Derby, Trijunct Railway Station, 1839-41 ]

[Illustration:

63 J. B. Bunning: London, Coal Exchange, 1846-9 ]

[Illustration:

64 Sir Joseph Paxton and Fox & Henderson: London, Crystal Palace, 1850-1 ]

[Illustration:

65 I. K. Brunel and Sir M. D. Wyatt: London, Paddington Station, 1852-4 ]

[Illustration:

66 (A) Lewis Cubitt: London, King’s Cross Station, 1851-2 ]

[Illustration:

66 (B) Karl Etzel: Vienna, Dianabad, 1841-3 ]

[Illustration:

67 (A) Decimus Burton and Richard Turner: Kew, Palm Stove, 1845-7 ]

[Illustration:

67 (B) James Bogardus: New York, Laing Stores, 1849 ]

[Illustration:

68 L.-T.-J. Visconti and H.-M. Lefuel: Paris, New Louvre, 1852-7 ]

[Illustration:

69 H.-P.-F. Labrouste: Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, Reading Room, 1862-8 ]

[Illustration:

70 (A) H.-J. Espérandieu: Marseilles, Palais Longchamps, 1862-9 ]

[Illustration:

70 (B) J.-L.-C. Garnier: Paris, Opéra, 1861-74 ]

[Illustration:

70 (C) Charles Rohault de Fleury and Henri Blondel: Paris, Place de l’Opéra, 1858-64 ]

[Illustration:

71 J.-L.-C. Garnier: Paris, Opéra, foyer, 1861-74 ]

[Illustration:

72 (A) J.-A.-E. Vaudremer: Paris, Saint-Pierre-de-Montrouge, 1864-70 ]

[Illustration:

72 (B) J.-F. Duban: Paris, École des Beaux-Arts, 1860-2 ]

[Illustration:

73 (A) Gottfried Semper and Karl von Hasenauer: Vienna, Burgtheater, 1874-88 ]

[Illustration:

73 (B) Theophil von Hansen: Vienna, Heinrichshof, 1861-3 ]

[Illustration:

74 Vienna, Ringstrasse, begun 1858 ]

[Illustration:

75 (A) A.-F. Mortier: Paris, block of flats, 11 Rue de Milan, _c._ 1860 ]

[Illustration:

75 (B) Giuseppe Mengoni: Milan, Galleria Vittorio Emmanuele, 1865-77 ]

[Illustration:

76 (A) Gaetano Koch: Rome, Esedra, 1885 ]

[Illustration:

76 (B) J.-A.-F.-A. Pellechet: Barnard Castle, Co. Durham, Bowes Museum, 1869-75. _Copyright Country Life_ ]

[Illustration:

77 (A) Friedrich Hitzig: Berlin, Exchange, 1859-63 ]

[Illustration:

77 (B) Julius Raschdorf: Cologne, Opera House, 1870-2 ]

[Illustration:

78 (A) Cuthbert Brodrick: Leeds, Town Hall, 1855-9 ]

[Illustration:

78 (B) Sir Charles Barry: Halifax, Town Hall, 1860-2 ]

[Illustration:

79 Cuthbert Brodrick: Scarborough, Grand Hotel, 1863-7 ]

[Illustration:

80 (A) John Giles: London, Langham Hotel, 1864-6 ]

[Illustration:

80 (B) London, 1-5 Grosvenor Place, begun 1867 ]

[Illustration:

81 Joseph Poelaert: Brussels, Palace of Justice, 1866-83 ]

[Illustration:

82 (A) Thomas U. Walter: Washington, Capitol, Wings and Dome, 1851-65; Central Block by William Thornton and others, 1792-1828 ]

[Illustration:

82 (B) Arthur B. Mullet; Arthur Gilman consultant: Washington, State, War and Navy Department Building, 1871-5 ]

[Illustration:

83 (A) Sir M. D. Wyatt: London, Alford House, 1872 ]

[Illustration:

83 (B) Francis Fowke: London, Victoria and Albert Museum, Court, begun 1866 ]

[Illustration:

84 Georg von Dollmann: Schloss Linderhof, near Oberammergau, 1870-86 ]

[Illustration:

85 William Butterfield: London, All Saints’, Margaret Street, interior, 1849-59 ]

[Illustration:

86 (A) William Butterfield: London, All Saints’, Margaret Street, Schools and Clergy House, 1849-59 ]

[Illustration:

86 (B) Deane & Woodward: Oxford, University Museum, 1855-9 ]

[Illustration:

87 William Butterfield: Baldersby St James, Yorkshire, St James’s, 1856 ]

[Illustration:

88 William Burges: Hartford, Conn., project for Trinity College, 1873 ]

[Illustration:

89 (A) Henry Clutton: Leamington, Warwickshire, St Peter’s, 1861-5 ]

[Illustration:

89 (B) James Brooks: London, St Saviour’s, Hoxton, 1865-7 ]

[Illustration:

90 Sir G. G. Scott: London, Albert Memorial, 1863-72 ]

[Illustration:

91 (A) J. P. Seddon: Aberystwyth, University College, begun 1864 ]

[Illustration:

91 (B) H. H. Richardson: Medford, Mass., Grace Church, 1867-8 ]

[Illustration:

92 (A) E. W. Godwin: Congleton, Cheshire, Town Hall, 1864-7 ]

[Illustration:

92 (B) G. F. Bodley: Pendlebury, Lancashire, St Augustine’s, 1870-4 ]

[Illustration:

93 (A) J. L. Pearson: London, St Augustine’s, Kilburn, 1870-80 ]

[Illustration:

93 (B) Edmund E. Scott: Brighton, St Bartholomew’s, completed 1875 ]

[Illustration:

94 (A) R. Norman Shaw: Bingley, Yorkshire, Holy Trinity, 1866-7 ]

[Illustration:

94 (B) G. E. Street: London, St James the Less, Thorndike Street, 1858-61 ]

[Illustration:

95 (A) Ware & Van Brunt: Cambridge, Mass., Memorial Hall, 1870-8 ]

[Illustration:

95 (B) Frank Furness: Philadelphia, Provident Life and Trust Company, 1879 ]

[Illustration:

96 (A) Russell Sturgis: New Haven, Conn., Yale College, Farnam Hall, 1869-70 ]

[Illustration:

96 (B) Antoni Gaudí: Barcelona, Palau Güell, 1885-9 ]

[Illustration:

97 (A) Fuller & Jones: Ottawa, Canada, Parliament House, 1859-67 ]

[Illustration:

97 (B) William Morris and Philip Webb: London, Victoria and Albert Museum, Refreshment Room, 1867 ]

[Illustration:

98 E.-E. Viollet-le-Duc: St Denis, Seine, Saint-Denys-de-l’Estrée, 1864-7 ]

[Illustration:

99 (A) Heinrich von Ferstel: Vienna, Votivkirche, 1856-79 ]

[Illustration:

99 (B) Friedrich von Schmidt: Vienna, Fünfhaus Paris Church, 1868-75 ]

[Illustration:

100 G. E. Street: Rome, St Paul’s American Church, 1873-6 ]

[Illustration:

101 (A) E.-E. Viollet-le-Duc: Paris, block of flats, Rue de Douai, _c._ 1860 ]

[Illustration:

101 (B) P. J. H. Cuijpers: Amsterdam, Maria Magdalenakerk, 1887 ]

[Illustration:

101 (C) P. J. H. Cuijpers: Amsterdam, Rijksmuseum, 1877-85 ]

[Illustration:

102 (A) Philip Webb: Smeaton Manor, Yorkshire, 1877-9 ]

[Illustration:

102 (B) R. Norman Shaw: Withyham, Sussex, Glen Andred, 1866-7 ]

[Illustration:

103 R. Norman Shaw: London, Old Swan House, 1876 ]

[Illustration:

104 (A) R. Norman Shaw: London, Albert Hall Mansions, 1879 ]

[Illustration:

104 (B) George & Peto: London, W. S. Gilbert house, 1882 ]

[Illustration:

105 R. Norman Shaw: London, Fred White house, 1887 ]

[Illustration:

106 (A) R. Norman Shaw: London, Holy Trinity, Latimer Road, 1887-9 ]

[Illustration:

106 (B) R. Norman Shaw: London, New Scotland Yard, 1887 ]

[Illustration:

107 R. Norman Shaw: London, Piccadilly Hotel, 1905-8 ]

[Illustration:

108 (A) H. H. Richardson: Boston, Trinity Church, 1873-7 ]

[Illustration:

108 (B) H. H. Richardson: Pittsburgh, Penna, Allegheny County Jail, 1884-8

]

[Illustration:

109 (A) Charles B. Atwood: Chicago, World’s Fair, Fine Arts Building, 1892-3 ]

[Illustration:

109 (B) McKim, Mead & White: New York, Villard houses, 1883-5 ]

[Illustration:

110 H. H. Richardson: Quincy, Mass., Crane Library, 1880-3 ]

[Illustration:

111 McKim, Mead & White: Boston, Public Library, 1888-92 ]

[Illustration:

112 (A) C. R. Cockerell: Liverpool, Bank Chambers, 1849 ]

[Illustration:

112 (B) Alexander Parris: Boston, North Market Street, designed 1823 ]

[Illustration:

113 E. W. Godwin: Bristol, 104 Stokes Croft, _c._ 1862 ]

[Illustration:

114 (A) Peter Ellis: Liverpool, Oriel Chambers, 1864-5 ]

[Illustration:

114 (B) Lockwood & Mawson (?): Bradford, Kassapian’s Warehouse, _c._ 1862 ]

[Illustration:

115 (A) George B. Post: New York, Western Union Building, 1873-5 ]

[Illustration:

115 (B) D. H. Burnham & Co.: Chicago, Reliance Building, 1894 ]

[Illustration:

116 (A) H. H. Richardson: Hartford, Conn., Brown-Thompson Department Store (Cheney Block), 1875-6 ]

[Illustration:

116 (B) H. H. Richardson: Chicago, Marshall Field Wholesale Store, 1885-7 ]

[Illustration:

117 (A) Adler & Sullivan: Chicago, Auditorium Building, 1887-9 ]

[Illustration:

117 (B) William Le B. Jenney: Chicago, Sears, Roebuck & Co. (Leiter) Building. 1889-90 ]

[Illustration:

118 Adler & Sullivan: St Louis, Wainwright Building, 1890-1 ]

[Illustration:

119 Adler & Sullivan: Buffalo, N.Y., Guaranty Building, 1894-5 ]

[Illustration:

120 Holabird & Roche; Louis H. Sullivan: Chicago, 19 South Michigan Avenue; Gage Building, 1898-9 ]

[Illustration:

121 Louis H. Sullivan: Chicago, Carson, Pirie & Scott Department Store, 1899-1901, 1903-4 ]

[Illustration:

122 (A) J. B. Papworth: ‘Cottage Orné’, 1818 ]

[Illustration:

122 (B) William Butterfield: Coalpitheath, Gloucestershire, St Saviour’s Vicarage, 1844-5 ]

[Illustration:

123 R. Norman Shaw: nr. Withyham, Sussex, Leyswood, 1868 ]

[Illustration:

124 (A) Dudley Newton: Middletown, R.I., Sturtevant house, 1872 ]

[Illustration:

124 (B) H. H. Richardson: Cambridge, Mass., Stoughton house, 1882-3 ]

[Illustration:

125 (A) McKim, Mead & White: Elberon, N.J., H. Victor Newcomb house, 1880-1 ]

[Illustration:

125 (B) Bruce Price: Tuxedo Park, N.Y., Pierre Lorillard house, 1885-6 ]

[Illustration:

126 McKim, Mead & White: Newport, R.I., Isaac Bell, Jr, house, 1881-2] ]

[Illustration:

127 McKim, Mead & White: Bristol, R.I., W. G. Low house, 1887 ]

[Illustration:

128 (A) Frank Lloyd Wright: River Forest, Ill., W. H. Winslow house, 1893 ]

[Illustration:

128 (B) Frank Lloyd Wright: River Forest, Ill., River Forest Golf Club, 1898, 1901 ]

[Illustration:

129 (A) C. F. A. Voysey: Hog’s Back, Surrey, Julian Sturgis house, elevation, 1896 ]

[Illustration:

129 (B) C. F. A. Voysey: Lake Windermere, Broadleys, 1898-9 ]

[Illustration:

130 (A) Gustave Eiffel: Paris, Eiffel Tower, 1887-9 ]

[Illustration:

130 (B) Baron Victor Horta: Brussels, Tassel house, 1892-3 ]

[Illustration:

131 (A) Baron Victor Horta: Brussels, Solvay house, 1895-1900 ]

[Illustration:

131 (B) Baron Victor Horta: Brussels, L’Innovation Department Store, 1901 ]

[Illustration:

132 (A) C. R. Mackintosh: Glasgow, School of Art, 1897-9 ]

[Illustration:

132 (B) Baron Victor Horta: Brussels, Maison du Peuple, interior, 1896-9 ]

[Illustration:

133 Franz Jourdain: Paris, Samaritaine Department Store, 1905 ]

[Illustration:

134 (A) Auguste Perret: Paris, block of flats, 119 Avenue Wagram, 1902 ]

[Illustration:

134 (B) C. Harrison Townsend: London, Whitechapel Art Gallery, 1897-9 ]

[Illustration:

135 (A) C. R. Mackintosh: Glasgow, School of Art, 1907-8 ]

[Illustration:

135 (B) Antoni Gaudí: Barcelona, Casa Milá, ground storey, 1905-7 ]

[Illustration:

136 Antoni Gaudí: Barcelona, Casa Batlló, front, 1905-7 ]

[Illustration:

137 (A) Antoni Gaudí: Barcelona, Casa Milá, 1905-7 ]

[Illustration:

137 (B) Hector Guimard: Paris, Gare du Métropolitain, Place Bastille, 1900 ]

[Illustration:

138 (A) Otto Wagner: Vienna, Majolika Haus, _c._ 1898 ]

[Illustration:

138 (B) H. P. Berlage: London, Holland House, 1914 ]

[Illustration:

139 (A) Auguste Perret: Paris, Garage Ponthieu, 1905-6 ]

[Illustration:

139 (B) Auguste Perret: Paris, block of flats, 9 Place de la Porte de Passy, 1930-2 ]

[Illustration:

140 (A) Auguste Perret: Le Havre, Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, 1948-54 ]

[Illustration:

140 (B) Auguste Perret: Paris, Ministry of Marine, 1929-30 ]

[Illustration:

141 Auguste Perret: Le Raincy, S.-et-O., Notre-Dame, 1922-3 ]

[Illustration:

142 (A) Frank Lloyd Wright: Kankakee, Ill., Warren Hickox house, 1900 ]

[Illustration:

142 (B) Frank Lloyd Wright: Highland Park, Ill., W. W. Willitts house, 1902 ]

[Illustration:

143 (A) Frank Lloyd Wright: Delavan Lake, Wis., C. S. Ross house, 1902 ]

[Illustration:

143 (B) Frank Lloyd Wright: Oak Park, Ill., Unity Church, 1906 ]

[Illustration:

144 Frank Lloyd Wright: Pasadena, Cal., Mrs G. M. Millard house, 1923 ]

[Illustration:

145 (A) Frank Lloyd Wright: Falling Water, Pennsylvania, 1936-7 ]

[Illustration:

145 (B) Frank Lloyd Wright: Pleasantville, N.Y., Sol Friedman house, 1948-9 ]

[Illustration:

146 (A) Frank Lloyd Wright: Racine, Wis., S. C. Johnson and Sons Administration Building and Laboratory Tower, 1936-9 and 1946-9 ]

[Illustration:

145 (B) Bernard Maybeck: Berkeley, Cal., Christian Science Church, 1910 ]

[Illustration:

147 (A) Greene & Greene: Pasadena, Cal., D. B. Gamble house, 1908-9 ]

[Illustration:

147 (B) Irving Gill: Los Angeles, Walter Dodge house, 1915-16 ]

[Illustration:

148 (A) Peter Behrens: Berlin, A.E.G. Small Motors Factory, 1910 ]

[Illustration:

148 (B) Peter Behrens: Hagen-Eppenhausen, Cuno and Schröder houses, 1909-10 ]

[Illustration:

149 (A) Peter Behrens: Berlin, A.E.G. Turbine Factory, 1909 ]

[Illustration:

149 (B) Max Berg: Breslau, Jahrhunderthalle, 1910-12 ]

[Illustration:

150 H. P. Berlage: Amsterdam, Diamond Workers’ Union Building, 1899-1900 ]

[Illustration:

151 Adolf Loos: Vienna, Kärntner Bar, 1907 ]

[Illustration:

152 Bonatz & Scholer: Stuttgart, Railway Station, 1911-14, 1919-27 ]

[Illustration:

153 (A) Fritz Höger: Hamburg, Chilehaus, 1923 ]

[Illustration:

153 (B) Erich Mendelsohn: Neubabelsberg, Einstein Tower, 1921 ]

[Illustration:

154 (A) Josef Hoffmann: Brussels, Stoclet house, 1905-11 ]

[Illustration:

154 (B) Otto Wagner: Vienna, Postal Savings Bank, 1904-6 ]

[Illustration:

155 (A) Adolf Loos: Vienna, Gustav Scheu house, 1912 ]

[Illustration:

155 (B) Adolf Loos: Vienna, Leopold Langer flat, 1901 ]

[Illustration:

156 (A) Piet Kramer: Amsterdam, De Dageraad housing estate, 1918-23 ]

[Illustration:

156 (B) Michael de Klerk: Amsterdam, Eigen Haard housing estate, 1917 ]

[Illustration:

157 (A) W. M. Dudok: Hilversum, Dr Bavinck School, 1921 ]

[Illustration:

157 (B) Saarinen & Saarinen: Minneapolis, Minn., Christ Lutheran Church, 1949-50 ]

[Illustration:

158 (A) Walter Gropius with Adolf Meyer: Project for Chicago Tribune Tower, 1922 ]

[Illustration:

158 (B) Walter Gropius and Adolf Meyer: Alfeld-an-der-Leine, Fagus Factory, 1911-14]

]

[Illustration:

159 Le Corbusier: Poissy, S.-et-O., Savoye house, 1929-30 ]

[Illustration:

160 (A) Le Corbusier: Second project for Citrohan house, 1922 ]

[Illustration:

160 (B) Le Corbusier: Garches, S.-et-O., Les Terrasses, 1927 ]

[Illustration:

161 (A) Walter Gropius: Dessau, Bauhaus, 1925-6 ]

[Illustration:

161 (B) Walter Gropius: Dessau, City Employment Office, 1927-8 ]

[Illustration:

162 (A) Walter Gropius: Berlin, Siemensstadt housing estate, 1929-30 ]

[Illustration:

162 (B) Ludwig Mies van der Rohe: Stuttgart, block of flats, Weissenhof, 1927 ]

[Illustration:

163 (A) Brinkman & van der Vlugt: Rotterdam, van Nelle Factory, 1927 ]

[Illustration:

163 (B) J. J. P. Oud: Hook of Holland, housing estate, 1926-7 ]

[Illustration:

164 (A) J. J. P. Oud: Rotterdam, church, Kiefhoek housing estate, 1928-30 ]

[Illustration:

164 (B) Gerrit Rietveld: Utrecht, Schroeder house, 1925 ]

[Illustration:

165 (A) Ludwig Mies van der Rohe: Barcelona, German Exhibition Pavilion, 1929 ]

[Illustration:

165 (B) Le Corbusier: Paris, Swiss Hostel, Cité Universitaire, 1931-2 ]

[Illustration:

166 Le Corbusier: Marseilles, Unité d’Habitation, 1946-52 ]

[Illustration:

167 Le Corbusier: Ronchamp, Hte-Saône, Notre-Dame-du-Haut, 1950-5 ]

[Illustration:

168 (A) Le Corbusier: Éveux-sur-L’Arbresle, Dominican Monastery of La Tourette, 1957-61 ]

[Illustration:

168 (B) Eero Saarinen: Warren, Mich., General Motors Technical Institute, 1951-5 ]

[Illustration:

169 Howe & Lescaze: Philadelphia, Philadelphia Savings Fund Society Building, 1932 ]

[Illustration:

170 Ludwig Mies van der Rohe: Chicago, Ill., blocks of flats, 845-60 Lake Shore Drive, 1949-51 ]

[Illustration:

171 Lúcio Costa, Oscar Niemeyer, and others (Le Corbusier consultant): Rio de Janeiro, Ministry of Education and Health, 1937-42 ]

[Illustration:

172 (A) Giuseppe Terragni: Como, Casa del Fascio, 1932-6 ]

[Illustration:

172 (B) Tecton: London, Regent’s Park Zoo, Penguin Pool, 1933-5 ]

[Illustration:

173 (A) Martin Nyrop: Copenhagen, Town Hall, 1892-1902 ]

[Illustration:

173 (B) Alvar Aalto: Säynatsälo, Municipal Buildings, _c._ 1951-3 ]

[Illustration:

174 (A) Ragnar Östberg: Stockholm, Town Hall, 1909-23 ]

[Illustration:

174 (B) Ragnar Östberg: Stockholm, Town Hall, 1909-23 ]

[Illustration:

175 (A) Sigfrid Ericsson: Göteborg, Masthugg Church, 1910-14 ]

[Illustration:

175 (B) P. V. Jensen Klint: Copenhagen, Grundvig Church, 1913, 1921-6 ]

[Illustration:

176 (A) E. G. Asplund: Stockholm City Library, 1921-8 ]

[Illustration:

176 (B) Edward Thomsen and G. B. Hagen: Gentofte Komune, Øregaard School, 1923-4 ]

[Illustration:

177 (A) Cram & Ferguson: Princeton, N.J., Graduate College, completed 1913 ]

[Illustration:

177 (B) Reed & Stem and Warren & Wetmore: New York, Grand Central Station, 1903-13 ]

[Illustration:

178 Cass Gilbert: New York, Woolworth Building, 1913 ]

[Illustration:

179 McKim, Mead & White: New York, University Club, 1899-1900 ]

[Illustration:

180 Henry Bacon: Washington, Lincoln Memorial, completed 1917 ]

[Illustration:

181 Sir Edwin Lutyens: Delhi, Viceroy’s House, 1920-31. _Copyright Country Life_ ]

[Illustration:

182 (A) Alvar Aalto: Muuratsälo, architect’s own house, 1953 ]

[Illustration:

182 (B) Sir Edwin Lutyens: Sonning, Deanery Gardens, 1901. _Copyright Country Life_ ]

[Illustration:

183 (A) Victor Laloux: Paris, Gare d’Orsay, 1898-1900 ]

[Illustration:

183 (B) Eugenio Montuori and others: Rome, Termini Station, completed 1951 ]

[Illustration:

184 Carlos Lazo and others: Mexico City, University City, begun _c._ 1950 ]

[Illustration:

185 (A) Kay Fisker and Eske Kristensen: Copenhagen, Kongegården Estate, 1955-6 ]

[Illustration:

185 (B) Eero Saarinen: New Haven, Conn., Ezra Stiles and Samuel F.B. Morse Colleges, 1960-2 ]

[Illustration:

186 (A) James Cubitt & Partners: Langleybury, Hertfordshire, school, 1955-6 ]

[Illustration:

186 (B) London County Council Architect’s Office: London, Loughborough Road Estate, 1954-6 ]

[Illustration:

187 (A) Kenzo Tange: Totsuka, Country Club, _c._ 1960 ]

[Illustration:

187 (B) Kunio Maekawa: Tokyo, Metropolitan Festival Hall, 1961 ]

[Illustration:

188 (A) Frank Lloyd Wright: New York, Guggenheim Museum, (1943-6), 1956-9 ]

[Illustration:

188 (B) Frank Lloyd Wright: New York, Guggenheim Museum, (1943-6), 1956-9 ]

[Illustration:

189 Skidmore, Owings & Merrill (Gordon Bunshaft): New York, Lever House, 1950-2 ]

[Illustration:

190 (A) Philip C. Johnson: New Canaan, Conn., Boissonas house, 1955-6 ]

[Illustration:

190 (B) Eero Saarinen: Chantilly, Va., Dulles International Airport, 1960-3 ]

[Illustration:

190 (C) Oscar Niemeyer: Pampulha, São Francisco, 1943 ]

[Illustration:

191 Hentrich & Petschnigg: Düsseldorf, Thyssen Haus, 1958-60 ]

[Illustration:

192 Ludwig Mies van der Rohe and Philip Johnson: New York, Seagram Building, 1956-8 ]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

INDEX

Numbers in _italics_ refer to plates. References to the Notes are given only where they indicate matters of special interest or importance: such references are given to the page on which the note occurs, followed by the number of the chapter to which it belongs, and the number of the note. Thus 455(13)[287] indicates the note is on page 455, it is referenced from chapter 13, and is note [287] within the body of this book.

The system followed in towns and cities is to print the name of the building first, followed where applicable by the name of the street in which it is located and by the district or suburb. Thus the White House, Tite Street, Chelsea, will be found in the main London entry under White House, and Saint-Jean-Baptiste, Neuilly, in the main Paris entry under Saint-Jean-Baptiste; each, however, is cross-referenced in the main index, as Chelsea, _see_ London (White House). More remote suburbs generally have separate entries. Country houses are entered under their own names rather than under nearby towns and villages.

A

Aalto, Alvar, 380-381, 429, 430, 433; _173_, _182_

Aarhus, City Library, 395; Custom House, 395; Marselisberg Slot, 396; Theatre, 395; University, 414-415

Abadie, Paul, 143

Abbey, Edwin A., 230

Abbotsford (Roxburgsh.), 94

Aberystwyth (Cardigansh.), University College, 187; _91_

Åbom, J. F., 42, 157

Abraham, H. R., 235-236

Abramowitz, Max, 415, _see also_ Harrison & Abramowitz

_Academy Architecture_, 281, 285

Acapulco, airport, 423

Adam, Robert, xxiii, 3

Adams, A. J., 215

Adams, Maurice B., 215

Adcote (Salop), 216

Adelaide, Cathedral, 196

Adelpodinger, Joseph, 39

Adler, Dankmar, 241, 246; _117-119_

Ahlert, F. A., 111

Ahmedabad, 386

Airports, 423

Aitchison, George, 185, 237

Aix, Palais de Justice, 46, 49

Alavoine, J.-A., 49, 120

Albany (N.Y.), New York State Capitol, 168, 469(13)[287]

Albert, Prince, 75, 94

Albini, Franco, 430

Alcobaça, monastery, 116

Aldrich, Chester H., 469(24)[515], _see also_ Delano & Aldrich

Alessandria, Prison, 53

Alexander I, 9, 14, 15, 57

Alexander, D. A., 5

Alexander, George, 75

Alexandria, St Mark’s, 461(10)[220]

Alfeld, Fagus Factory, 365; _158_

Algarotti, Francesco, xxii

Allom, Thomas, 61

Alnwick Castle (Northumberland), 95

Alton Castle (Staffs.), 95

Aluminium, 349

Amati, Carlo, 55

Ambler, Thomas, 238

Amherst (Mass.), Amherst College, 81, 90; _45_

Amiens, skyscraper, 316

Amsterdam, Amstel Hotel, 185; Amstellaan housing estate, 358; Amsterdam West housing estate, 358; Central Station, 199; De Dageraad housing estate, 358; _156_; Diamond Workers’ Trade Union Building, 356; _150_; Eigen Haard housing estate, 357-358; _156_; Exchange, 356; Galerij, 158; Haarlemer Poort, 42; Hotel American, 356; jewellery shop by Rietveld, 367; Linnaeusstraat, 356; Maria Magdalenakerk, 199; _101_; Nederlandsche Handel Maatschappij, 464(21)[224]; Paleis voor Volksvlijt, 126; Resistance Monument, 469(23)[509]; Rijksmuseum, 199; _101_; Round Church, 42; Scheepvaarthuis, 336, 357; Vondelkerk, 199

Andalusia (Philadelphia), 82

André, L.-J., 221

Ango, 116

Ankara, housing, 347; opera-house, 347

Annandale (N.Y.), Blythewood, 103

_Antichità romane_ (Piranesi), xxii

_Antiquities of Athens_ (Stuart and Revett), xxii, 4

_Antiquities of India_ (Daniell), 3

_Antiquities of Magna Graecia_ (Wilkins), 4

Antolini, Giannantonio, 13

Antonelli, Alessandro, 449(8)[200]

_Après le cubisme_ (Le Corbusier), 367

Arc-et-Senans (Doubs), xxiv

Archer, John Lee, 105

Archer & Green, 163

_Architectural Sketches from the Continent_ (Shaw), 198, 207

_Architecture considérée sous le rapport de l’art_ (Ledoux), xxv

_Architecture moderne en Angleterre_ (Sédille), 281

_Architecture romane du midi de la France_ (Révoil), 223

_Architecture toscane_ (Grandjean), 25, 72

Arisaig (Inverness-shire), 178, 259, fig. 23

Aristotle, xxvii

Arizona State Capitol, project, 332

Arkona, lighthouse, 32

Arlington (N.Y.), Vassar College, 167

Arlington House (Va.), 81

Armand, Alfred, 140, 448(8)[187]

Arnold, C. F., 198

Arrochar (N.Y.), Richardson’s own house, 193

Artigas, Francisco, 425

Art Nouveau, 281ff.

Arts and Crafts Exhibition Society, 285

Arup, Ove, 420, 433

Ashbee, C. R., 279

Ashmont, _see_ Boston (All Saints’)

Ashridge (Herts.), 3

Aslin, C. H., 422

Asplund, E. G., 359-360, 381, 393, 398; _176_

Astorga, Bishop’s Palace, 202

Athens, Academy, 38; Aghios Dionysios, 38; Byzantine Museum, 39; English Church, 38; National Library, 38; Old Palace, 38; _17_; Palais Dimitriou, 38; Polytechneion, 39; University, 38; University Street, 38

Atkinson, Fello, 471(25)[542]

Atkinson, William, 94

Attleborough (Mass.), school, 388

Atwood, Charles B., 230, 231-232, 248; _109_

Auburndale (Mass.), railway station, 224

Auteuil, _see_ Paris (Jeanneret, La Roche houses)

Avon Tyrrell (Hants.), 278

_Azulejos_, 90, 172, 201, 422

B

Babb, Cook & Willard, 242

Babbacombe (Devon), All Saints’, 184

Babelsberg, Schloss, 36, 111; (steam-engine house), 35

Bacon, Henry, 393, 400; _180_

Baden-Baden, Kurhaus, 28; Trinkhalle, 28; _11_

Badger, Daniel D., 447(7)[172]

Bage, Charles, 117

Baghdad, opera-house project, 332

Bagot, W. H., 196

Baillie Scott, M. H., 277, 282, 297, fig. 33

Bailly, A.-N., 140

Baker, Sir Herbert, 407-408, 470(24)[531]

Balat, Alphonse, 165

Baldersby St James (Yorks.), St James’s, 177; _87_

‘Balloon-frame’ construction, 240

Ballu, Théodore, 48, 108; _55_

Balmoral Castle (Aberdeensh.), 94, 126

Baltard, L.-P., xxvi, 46

Baltard, Victor, 48, 128, 141, 442(3)[63]; _22_

Baltimore, Battle Monument, 7; Catholic Cathedral, 6; _5_; St Mary’s Seminary chapel, 7; St Paul’s, 103; Sun Building, 124; Unitarian Church, 6-7; Washington Monument, 80

Balzaretti, Giuseppe, 56

Bangor (Maine), Farrer house, 103

Barabino, C. F., 54

Barcelona, Batlló, Casa, 303; _136_; Calvet, Casa, 302; 335 Diagonal, 305; Exhibition (1929), Mies’s pavilion, 376; _165_;

Güell, Finca, Pedralbes, 203; Güell, Palau, 202-204; _96_; Milá, Casa, 304-305, fig. 35; _135_, _137_; Miralles estate, 302-303; Palau de la Musica Catalana, 305; Parc de la Ciutadella, 201; Parc Güell, 302-303; Sagrada Familia, 202, 301-302; Teresian College, 202, 204; Vicens, Casa, 201

Barlow, W. H., 119, 188, 445(6)[115]

Barnard Castle (Co. Durham) Bowes Museum, 163; _76_

Barnet (Herts.), Trevor Hall, 211, 262, fig. 24

Barnett, George I., 89

Barnett, Dame Henrietta, 405

Barnum, P. T., 105, 254

Baron, C.-J., 122

Barr, John, 196

Barral, Vincent, 46

Barry, Sir Charles, 28, 69, 72ff., 96, 97, 98, 122, 159, 160, 257; _35_, _37_, _54_, _78_

Barry, E. M., 98, 160

Barthélémy, Eugène, 120

Barthélémy, J.-E., 108

Barthelmé, Donald, 422

Bartholdi, 138, 222

Bartlesville (Okla.), Price Tower, 320, 330-331

Bartning, Otto, 463(20)[427]

Basel, Sankt Antonius, 314

Basevi, George, 69

Bassett-Lowke, S. J., 346

Bath (Som.), Royal Crescent, 63; St Mary’s Bathwick, 96; Savings Bank, 75

Battersea, _see_ London (Ascension, church of the)

Baudot, J.-E.-A. de, 284, 309-310

Baumann, Povl, 397

Bay Region School, 412

Bazel, K. P. C. de, 464(21)[438]

Beardsley, Aubrey, 285, 286, 292

Beaumont, C.-E. de, 5

Becherer, Friedrich, 17

Beckford, William, 2

Bedford, Francis, 186

Bedford Park, _see_ London

Behrens, Peter, xxviii, 336, 338ff; _148-149_

Belanger, F.-J., xxvi, 15, 119

Bell, Anning, 292

Bell, William E., 263

Belle Grove (Louisiana), 82

Bellhouse, E. T., 126

Belli, Pasquale, 54

Belluschi, Pietro, 416, 422

Belmead (Va.), 104

Belper (Derbysh.), West Mill, 117

Beltrami, Luca, 147

Beman, Solon S., 248

Benda, Julius, 155, _see also_ Ebe & Benda

Benjamin, Asher, 78, 84, 85

Benicia (Cal.), California State Capitol (old), 84

Benouville, Château de (Calvados), xxiv

Benson, Sir John, 126

Bentley, J. F., 219

Berenguer, Francisc, 305

Berg, Max, 342-343; _149_

Berg, Schloss, 111

Berg-en-Dal, Hotel, 158

Bergamo, _città bassa_, 409

Berkeley (Cal.), California University School of Architecture, 333; Christian Science Church, 333; _146_; Gregory house, 333; Howard house, 333; Thorsen house, 333

Berlage, H. P., 355-357, 359; _138_, _150_

Berlin, A.E.G. factories: high tension, 340; large machine assembly hall, 341; small motors, 340; _148_; turbine, 339-340; _149_; Afrikanische Strasse housing estate, 375; Altes Museum, 30-32, fig. 6; _13_; Anhalter Bahnhof, 154; Bartholomäuskirche, 112; Brandenburg Gate, 16; Building Exhibition (1931), 376; Cathedral (old), 30; Cathedral (new), 153; City Hall, 35; Columbus Haus, 379; Exchange, 17, 153; _77_; Feilner house, 34, fig. 7; Hohenzollern Kunstgewerbehaus 296; Interbau Exhibition (1957), 375; Jacobikirche, 112; Komödie Theatre, 343; Kreuzberg War Memorial, 30, 111; Kroll Oper, 343; Liebknecht-Luxemburg Monument, 375; Lustgarten, 35; Markuskirche, 112; Mint, old, 17; Moller house, 16; Mosse, Palais, 156; Museum of Decorative Art, 153; Nationalgalerie, 32; Neues Museum, 32; Neue Tor, 35; Neue Wache, 29-30, fig. 5; Packhofgebäude, 32; Pariser Platz, 35; Petrikirche, 112; Prison, Military, 32; Rathaus, old, 152; Redern, Palais, 35; Reichsbank, 153; Reichstag, 156; Russian Embassy, 33; Schauspielhaus, 30; _12_; (Grosses), 344; Schlossbrücke, 30; Siemensstadt housing estate, 375; _162_; Singakademie, 30; skyscraper projects (Mies), 368; Viktoria Strasse, 152; Von Tiele house, 155; Werder Church, 32, 111; Wertheim store, 251, 296; Zellengefängnis, 37; _see also_ Hennigsdorf, Neubabelsberg, Zehlendorf

Bernasconi, G. A., 417

Berne, Federal Palace, 28, 52

Berneval, house by Perret, 309

Berry Hill (Va.), 82

Berthault, L.-M., 13

Bertoia, Harry, 423

Besançon (Doubs), theatre, xxiv

Bessemer, Sir Henry, 115

Bestelmeyer, German, 343

Béthencourt, General, 57

Bethnal Green, _see_ London (St Jude’s)

Betteshanger (Kent), house by Devey, 454(12)[266]-[267]

Bettws-y-Coed (Carnarvonsh.), Waterloo Bridge, 118

Beverly (Mass.), United Shoe Machinery Plant, 312

Bexhill (Sussex), De La Warr Pavilion, 387

Bexley Heath (Kent), The Red House, 177, 259

Bianchi, Pietro, 54; _26_

Biddle, Nicholas, 82

Biet, L.-M.-D., 47

Bijvoet & Duiker, 378

Bindesbøll, M. G. B., 40; _16_

Binet, René, 294

Bing, Siegfried, 293

Bingley (Yorks.), Holy Trinity, 183; _94_

Birmingham, Bishop Ryder’s church, 96; Curzon Street Station, 68; King Edward’s Grammar School, 97; St George’s, 95; St Peter’s, Dale End, 96; Town Hall, 69

Bischofsheim, church, 345

Bishop’s Itchington (War.), The Cottage, 275

Bjerke, Arvid, 397

Blackburn, James, 105

Blackwell’s Island, _see_ New York (Charity Hospital)

Blaise Hamlet (Glos.), 3, 93; _50_

Blake, William, 284

Blom, Fredrik, 42

Blomfield, Sir Reginald, 220, 407

Blondel, François, 10

Blondel, J.-B., 12

Blondel, J.-F., xxiii, 449(int.)[2]

Blondel, Henri, 137; _70_

Bloomfield (Conn.), Connecticut General Insurance Co., 416

Bloomfield Hills (Mich.), Cranbrook School, 361; Kingswood School, 361

Blore, Edward, 75-76, 94, 122

Blouet, G.-A., 10, 49, 50, 77

Board-and-batten, 258

Boari, Adamo, 301

Boberg, Ferdinand, 157, 395, 463(21)[436]

Bodley, G. F., 178, 184, 215; _92_

Bogardus, James, 124, 235, 458(16)[364]; _67_

Bogotá, churches, 346; Ginnásio Moderno, chapel, 422; Nuestra Señora de Fatimá, 422; Suramericana de Seguros, 416

Böhm, Dominikus, 344, 345

Boileau, L.-A., 128

Boileau, L. C., 251

Boldre Grange (Hants.), 210

Bollati, Giuseppe, 145

Boltenstern, Erich, 149

Boltz, L.-M., 110

Bonaparte, Jerome, 23

Bonaparte, Joseph, 13

Bonatz, Paul, 342, 347

Bonatz & Scholer, 342; _152_

Bonnard, J.-C., 12

Bonneau, 110

Bonnevie, E.-J., 53

Bonnier, L.-B., 293

Bonsignore, Ferdinando, 55; _26_

Boscombe (Hants.), Convent of the Sisters of Bethany, 213

Bosio, F. J., 54

Boston, All Saints’, Ashmont, 400; Ames Building (Harrison Avenue), 226, 243; Arlington Street Church, 168; Back Bay district, 169; Beacon Street, 85; _43_; Bowdoin Street Church, 102; Brattle Square (First Baptist) Church, 221-222; Brazier’s Buildings, 86; City Hall, 84, 167, 168; Court House, 7-8; Crowninshield house, 193; Custom House, 89; Federal Street Church, 102; Fenway Bridge, 224; First (Unitarian) Church, 192; Market Street, 86, 234; _112_; Massachusetts General Hospital, 84-85; Merchants’ Exchange, 88; Museum of Fine Arts, old, 229; New Old South Church, 194; Pierce store, 229; Public Library, 229-230; _111_; Quincy Market, 85-86; St Paul’s Cathedral, 85; State House, 7; Tremont House, 87, fig. 13; _41_; Trinity Church, 105, 222-223; _108a_

Bosworth, Welles, 401

Boullée, L.-E., xxiv, xxv-xxvi; _2_

Boulogne, Colonne de la Grande Armée, 12

Boulogne-Billancourt (Seine), Hôtel de Ville, 318

Boulton & Watt, 117

Bourdelle, Antoine, 311

Bournemouth (Hants.), St Michael and All Angels, 214; St Swithin’s, 216

Boyden, Elbridge, 192

Bracketted mode, 104, 258

Bradford (Yorks.), Kassapian’s Warehouse, 237; _114_

Brandon, David, 74

Brasilia, 414, 434, 435

Bratke, Osvaldo Arthur, 425, fig. 56

Bravo Jiménez, Jorge, 414

Brébion, Maximilien, xxiii, 116

Breslau, Jahrhunderthalle, 342-343; _149_; Petersdorf store, 379; theatre, 33

Breuer, Marcel, 382, 388, 469(23)[508]

_Brick and Marble Architecture of the Middle Ages in Italy_ (Street), 174

_Brickbuilder_, 321

Bridant, 110

Bridgeport (Conn.), Iranistan, 105, 254; Walnut Wood, 104

Bridges, 118-119

Brigham, Charles, 229

Brighton (Sussex), Anthaeum, 121; Kemp Town, 93; Pavilion, 3, 93-94, 117; _48_, _58_; St Bartholomew’s, 185, 189; _93_; St Michael’s, 178; St Paul’s, 100; St Peter’s, 96; Xavierian College, 72; _see also_ Hove

Brinkman, J. A., 378; _16_

Brisbane Cathedral, 189-190

Bristol (Som.), General Hospital, 236; Great Western Hotel, 87; Merchant Street warehouse, 237; 104 Stokes Croft, 185, 237; _113_; Strait Street warehouse, 238; Temple Meads Railway Station, 95, 121; 12 Temple Street, 236; West of England Bank, 236

Bristol (R.I.), Low house, 228, 269; _127_

Britton, John, 95

Brno, Tugendhathouse, 376, fig. 50

Brockhampton-by-Ross (Herefs.), church, 458(15)[354]

Brodrick, Cuthbert, 76, 158, 162; _37_, _78_, _79_

Broek, van den, & Bakema, 469(23)[508]

Brongniart, A.-T., 11; _8_

Brookline (Mass.), Harvard Church, 194

Brooklyn (N.Y.), Brooklyn Bridge, 119; Congregational Church of the Pilgrims, 103; Litchfield house, 104; Mercantile Library, 194; Pierrepont house, 103

Brooks, James, 184-185; _89_

Brown, Lancelot (‘Capability’), 94

Brown, Ford Madox, 178

Bruce, James Coles, 82

Brunel, I. K., 95, 119, 122, 125, 127; _65_

Brunet-Debaines, C.-F., 91

Brunet-Debaines, C.-L.-F., 48

Brunswick, Viewegsches Haus, 16; Villa Holland, 16

Brunswick (Maine), Bowdoin College Chapel, 103

Brussels, Aubecq house, 289, fig. 34; Boulevard Anspach, 164; Central Station, 291; Exchange, 164; Frison house, 289; Galerie Saint-Hubert, 120; Gros Waucquez building, 291; Hallet house, 289; Innovation store, 290-291; _131_; Maison du Peuple, 289-290; _132_; Musée Royale des Beaux Arts, 165; Old England store, 291; Palais des Beaux Arts, 291; Palais de Justice, 165; _81_; Prison, 53; 23-25 Rue Américaine, 289; Rue de Schaerbeek, school, 53; Solvay house, 289; _131_; Stoclet house, 350-351; _154_; Tassel house, 287-289; _130_; Temple des Passions Humaines, 287; Théâtre de la Monnaie, 53; Van Eetvelde house, 289; Wiener house, 289; Wolfers building, 291

_Brutalismo_, 430

Bryanston (Dorset), 219

Bryant, G. J. F., 168

Bryant & Gilman, 169

Bryce, David, 72

Bryn Mawr, rubber factory, 420

Buckler, John, 96

Bucklin, James C., 86, 89; _39_

Budapest, Academy of Sciences, 151; Custom House, 151; Ferenczváros parish church, 151; Kommitat building, 40; National Museum, 40; Opera House, 151; Parliament House, 198; Szent Lukásh Hotel, 151; Vigado Concert Hall, 151

Buenos Aires, Cathedral, 78

Buffalo (N.Y.), Dorsheimer house, 193; Ellicott Square Building, 248; Guaranty Building, 233, 247; _119_; Kleinhans Music Hall, 361; Larkin Administration Building, 324; State Hospital, 222

Buffington, L. S., 227

_Builder_, 166

Builders’ Guides, 78

_Building News_, 166

Buildwas (Salop), bridge, 118

Bulach, church, 28

Bulfinch, Charles, 7-8, 79, 84, 102

Bunning, J. B., 95, 123; _63_

Bunshaft, Gordon, 403; _189_

Burdon, Rowland, 118

Burges, William, 100, 178, 180, 187-188, 189, 451(10)[234], 453(11)[256]; _88_

Burke, Edmund, xxvii

Bürklein, Friedrich, 26

Burlington (N.J.), Doane house, 89; St Mary’s, 103

Burn, William, 71, 99, 162, 453(12)[261]

Burne-Jones, Sir Edward, 178, 180, 201, 223

Burnet, Sir John J., 470(24)[526]

Burnet & Tait, Sir John, 404, 408

Burnham, D. H., 227, 230-231, 248, fig. 20; _see also_ Burnham & Root, D. H. Burnham & Co.

Burnham & Co., D. H., 245, 249, 250, 456(14)[318]; _115_

Burnham & Root, 230-231, 241-242, 245-246; _115_

Buron, J.-B., 120

Burton, Decimus, 64-66, 67, 68, 72, 121; _31_, _67_

Burton, James, 5

Busby, C. A., 93, 94; _49_

Busse, August, 37

Butterfield William, 106, 174, 177, 178, 184, 186-187, 190, 196, 257, 259; _85-87_, _122_

Button, S. D., 236

Buzas, Stephan, 471(25)[542]

C

Caccault brothers, 109

Cagnola, Luigi, 13

Calder, Sandy, 414

Calderini, Giuseppe, 146

Callet, F.-E., 128

Calliat, P.-V., 140

Camberwell, _see_ London (St Giles’s)

Cambridge (Cambs.), All Saints’, 184; Downing College, 4, 66; Fitzwilliam Museum, 70; King’s College screen, 96; St John’s College, chapel, 181; New Court, 96; _50_

Cambridge (Mass.), Harvard University, Appleton Chapel, 89; (Austin Hall), 224; (Graduate Centre), 388; (Law School), 224; (Memorial Hall), 192; _95_; Sever Hall, 224; (University Hall), 84; Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 144, 401, 415, 422-423; Stoughton house, 267; _124_; Unitarian Church, 88

Camden Society, 97, 100, 127

Cameron, Charles, 14

Campanini, Alfredo, 301

Camporesi, Pietro, 54

Candela, Felix, 345, 420, 433, 461(18)[400]

Canevari, Raffaele, 145

Canissié, J.-B.-P., 48

Canova, Antonio, 55

Canterbury (Kent), St Augustine’s College, 451(10)[219]

Cantoni, Simone, 13

Caracas, 413-414; Cerro Piloto, 414; Edificio Polar, 416; University City, 414

Carcassonne (Aude), 197

_Carceri_ (Piranesi), xxii

Cardiff (Glam.), Castle, 188; McConochie house, 188

Carmel (Cal.), Walker house, 332

Carpeaux, J.-B., 138

Carpenter, R. C., 99, 100, 127

‘Carpenter’s Grecian’, 78

_Carpentry Made Easy_ (Bell), 263

Carrère, John M., 468(23)[492]; _see also_ Carrère & Hastings

Carrère & Hastings, 402

Carstensen, G. B., 126

Carter, Elias, 82

Casablanca, warehouses by Perret, 312

Caserta, Palace, 13, 54; _25_

Casey, T. L., 80, 463(21)[433]

Castell Coch (Glam.), 188

Cast iron, xxix, 115ff.

Cataño (Porto Rico), Beato Martín Porres, 422

Catelin, Prosper, 78

Caterham (Surrey), Upwood Gorse, 262

Catherine the Great, 14

Cattaneo, A., 301

Cavel, J.-B.-F., 11

Célérier, Jacques, 12

Cendrier, F. A., 128, 136

Century Guild, 285

Ceppi, Carlo, 55, 56, 145

Cessart, L.-A., 119

Cézanne, Paul, 286

Chalgrin, J.-F.-T., 10, 44, 51; _7_

Chambers, Sir William, 7

Champeaux (S.-et.-M.), house by Boltz, 110

Chandigarh, 386, 414, 434

Chandler (Ariz.), 330

Chantilly (Va.), Airport, 433, 434; _190_

Chantrell, R. D., 96

Charenton (Seine), asylum, 50; parish church, 142

Charlestown (Mass.), Bunker Hill Monument, 80, 85, 239

Charlottenburg, Behrendhouse, 30

Charlottesville (Va.), University of Virginia, 81, fig. 12; _38_

Charton, 283

Chartres, Cathedral, roof, 122

Chateauneuf, Alexis de, 28, 36, 100, 112; _57_

Chatsworth (Derbyshire), 94, 120, 124

Cheadle (Cheshire), St Giles’s, 99; _52_

Chelsea, _see_ London (Boyce house, Glebe Place, Chelsea, Cheyne House, Cheyne Walk, St Luke’s, Old Swan House, Tite Street, White House)

Cheltenham (Glos.), Queen’s Hotel, 87

Chemnitz, Esche house, 337

Chermayeff, Serge, 382, 387

Chester (Cheshire), Castle, 4

Chesters (Northumberland), 219

Chicago, All Souls’ Unitarian Church, 270; American Express Building, 222, 238, 240; Art Institute, 232; Auditorium Building, 243; _117_; Blossom house, 232, 271; Cable Building, 250; Carson, Pirie & Scott store, 248-249; _121_; Charnley house, 271; Cook County Buildings, 169; Esplanade Apartments, 390; Exhibition (1893), _see_ World’s Fair; E.-Z. Polish factory, 312; Field store, 225-226, 242; _116_; Fisher Building, 250; Gage Building, 248; _120_; Glessner house, 225, 269; Harlan house, 271; Heller house, 272, fig. 29; Home Insurance building, 226, 242; Husser house, 272-273, fig. 30; Illinois Institute of Technology, 388-389, fig. 52; 845-860 Lake Shore Drive, 389-390; _170_; McClurg Building, 248; MacVeagh house, 243, 269; Masonic Building, 230; Michigan Avenue, 248; _120_; Midway Airport, 423; Midway Gardens, 325-326; Monadnock Building, 230, 245-246, 247; Montauk Block, 241; Palmer House, 171; Public Library, 232; Reliance Building, 230, 245; _115_; Revell store, 241; Robie house, 323; Rookery Building, 242; Rothschild Store, 241; Ryerson Building, 241; Schiller Building, 246; Sears, Roebuck (Leiter) Building, 245; _117_; Stock Exchange Building, 246-247; Studebaker (Brunswick) Building, 248; Tacoma Building, 226, 243-244; Tribune Tower competition (1922), 360-361, 363; _158_; Troescher Building, 241, 246; Walker Warehouse, 245; Women’s Temple, 230;

World’s Fair, 230-232, fig. 20; _109_; _see also_ Glencoe, Highland Park, Oak Park, River Forest, Riverside, Wilmette, Winnetka

‘Chicago windows’, 247

Chigwell Hall (Essex), 210

Chorley Wood (Herts.), The Orchard, 276

Christiania, University, 41

Cincinnati (Ohio), Burnet House, 87; cable bridge, 119

‘Cité Industrielle’, 317

‘Citrohan’ projects, 368-370, figs. 44-45; _160_

Clapham, _see_ London (Our Lady of Victories)

Clark, John James, 171

Clarke, William, 86; _47_

Clarke & Bell, 72

Clason, I. G., 157

Clérisseau, C.-L., 5, 14, 439(int.)[7]

Clerkenwell, _see_ London (Holy Redeemer)

Cleveland (Ohio), Jewish Community Centre, 387; Rockefeller Building, 249

Clifton (Som.), All Saints’, 180; Suspension Bridge, 95, 119

Clisson (Vendée), 109

Cloverley Hall (Salop), 183, 207, 259-261, fig. 26

Cluskey, Charles B., 82

Clutton, Henry, 74, 100, 179; _89_

Cluysenaer, J.-P., 120

Coalbrookdale Bridge (Salop), 116

Coalpitheath (Glos.), St Saviour’s church and vicarage, 257; _122_

Coates, Wells, 382

Cobb, H. I., 227

Cobb & Frost, 227

Cobham (Surrey), Benfleet Hall, 177, 259

Cochin, C.-N., xxii

Cockerell, Sir Charles, 3

Cockerell, C. R., 5, 38, 68, 70, 234, 235; _112_

Cockerell, S. P., 2, 5, 254

Codman house project, 264

Coe, H. E., 159

Coe & Hofland, 159

Cohasset (Mass.), Bryant house, 224

Coignet, François, 309

Colbert, Jean-Baptiste, 1

Cole, Sir Henry, 128, 163-164, 450(9)[212]

Cole, Thomas, 444(5)[93]

Collcutt, T. E., 219

Cologne, Cathedral, 111; Flora Garden, 339; High School, 153; Hochhaus am Hansaring, 345; Stadttheater, 153; _77_; Trinitatiskirche, 37; Werkbund Exhibition (1914), Hall of Machinery, 365; theatre, 337; _see also_ Marienburg, Riehl

Colonna, Edward, 296

Columbia, (S.C.), Insane Asylum, 80

Columbus (Ind.), Tabernacle Church, 361

Columbus (Ohio), Ohio State Capitol, 84; _39_

Combe Abbey (War.), 183

Commissioners’ Churches, 96

Como, Casa del Fascio, 382; _172_

Compiègne, 13

Compositionalism, 470(24)[520]

Compton (Surrey), Watts Chapel, 460(17)[381]

Concrete, reinforced, 309

Congleton (Cheshire), Town Hall, 185; _92_

Connell, A. D., 468(23)[493], 470(24)[533]

Connell, Ward & Lucas, 382

Constantinople, _see_ Istanbul

Contamin, 283, 284, 310

Contant d’Ivry, Pierre, 11

_Contrasts_ (Pugin), 97

Conway (Carnarvonsh.), suspension bridge, 95; tubular bridge, 95, 118

Coolidge, Shepley, Bulfinch & Abbott, 401

Cooperstown (N.Y.), Hyde Hall, 88

Copenhagen, Absalons Gaard, 395; Agricultural School, 41; Amagertorv housing estate, 396; Gaol, 15; Grundvig Church, 395, 396; _175_; Hans Tavsengade housing estate, 397; 23 Havnegade, 41; Hornsbaekhus, 397; Kongegården Estate, 185; Magasin du Nord, 157; National Bank, 41; Palace Hotel, 395; Palace of Justice, 15; Police Headquarters, 397; Railway Station, 41, 125; Sankt Ansgars Church, 41; Søtorvet, 156, fig. 16; Thorwaldsen Museum, 40-41; _16_; Town Hall, 395; _174_; University Library, 41; Vor Frue Kirke, 15; _4_; _see also_ Gentofte Komune

Corbett, Harvey W., 470(24)[521]; _see also_ Helmle & Corbett

Cordemoy, A.-L., 439(int.)[2]

Cork, St Finbar’s Cathedral, 180-181

Corlies, John B., 124

Cornelius, Peter, 31

Cortot, J.-P., 10, 11

Corts de Sarría, Las, Miralles Estate, 303

Cosenza, Luigi, 420

Costa, Lúcio, 385, 414; _171_

Coste, P.-X., 46, 144

Cottage Grove (Ore.), First Presbyterian Church, 422

_Cottage orné_, 253; _122_

_Cottage Residences_ (Downing), 256, fig. 22

Cotte, Robert de, 446(6)[129]

Couture, G.-M., 11

Coventry (War.), Tile Hill Estate, 421

Crabtree, William, 382

Cragg, John, 117

Cragside (Northumberland), 209

Craigellachie (Banff), bridge, 118; _59_

Cram, Ralph Adams, 393, 400

Cram & Ferguson, 401; _177_

Cramail (Cramailler), 107

Crawford, William, 50, 77

Crivelli, Ferdinando, 56

Cronkhill (Salop), 3, 34, 254

Crucy, Mathurin, 12

Crystal Palace, _see_ London

Cubitt, James, 481(25)[542]

Cubitt & Partners, James, 420, 422; _186_

Cubitt, Lewis, 69, 76, 127; _66_

Cubitt, Thomas, 69, 75, 122, 460(9)[209]

Cubitt, Sir William, 128

Cudell, Adolph, 268

Cudell & Blumenthal, 268

Cuéllar, Serrano, Gomez & Co., 416

Cuijpers, Eduard, 356, 357

Cuijpers, P. J. H., 199-200, 201; _101_

Culzean (Ayrshire), Castle, 3

Cumberland, F. W., 195

Cumbernauld New Town (Dunbartonsh.), 434

Cummings, Charles A., 194

Cundy, Joseph, 450(9)[209]

Cundy, Thomas (the elder), 3

Cundy, Thomas (the younger), 450(9)[209]

Curtain-wall, 465(22)[451]

D

Daly, C.-D., 140, 449(8)[193]

Damesme, L.-E.-A., xxvi, 53

Dance, George, xxiv, xxvi

Daniell, Thomas, 3

Danzig, Stadttheater, 16

Darbishire, H. A., 451(10)[233]

Darby, Abraham (III), 116

Dark, Frankland, 420

Darmstadt, 297, 299; Artillery Barracks, 37; Behrens house, 338; Exhibition Gallery, 337; Ludwigskirche, 36; Wedding Tower, 337

D’Aronco, Raimondo, 300-301

Davioud, G.-J.-A., 137, 138, 458(16)[360]

Davis, A. J., 82, 84, 86, 88, 103, 104; _42_; _see also_ Town & Davis

Davis, Arthur J., 470(24)[523]

Dawpool (Cheshire), 216

Daymond, J., 161

Deane, Sir Thomas, 176, 181; _86_

Deane, Thomas Newenham, 181

Deane & Woodward, 176, 236, 237; _86_

Deanery Gardens (Berks.), 278, 404; _182_

Debat-Ponsan, J.-H.-E., 318

Debret, François, 10

_Decorator and Furnisher_, 287

Deglane, H.-A.-A., 293-294

_Dekorative Kunst_, 292

Delacroix, Eugène, 51, 285

Delano, William A., 469(24)[515]; _see also_ Delano & Aldrich

Delano & Aldrich, 399

Delavan Lake (Wis.), Ross house, 321; _143_

Delon (Dilon, Dillon), 119

Delpini, José, 420

Delstern, Crematorium, 339

Demetz, F.-A., 50, 77

Demmler, G. A., 111; _57_

Denham (Herts.), 210

Denis, Maurice, 312, 313

Denver (Col.), Mile-High Center, 416

Deperthes, P.-J.-E., 48

Derby, calico mill, 117; St Andrew’s, 188; St Marie’s, 99; Trijunct Station, 69, 121-122; _62_

Desjardins, Antoine, 141

Desmarest, L.-F., 120

Desprez, L.-J., xxvi, 16

Dessau, Bauhaus, 373, fig. 48; _161_; City Employment Office, 374; _161_; Törten housing estate, 374

Destailleur, G.-H., 162

_De Stijl_, 363, 366

Detroit (Mich.), Fisher Building, 361; _see also_ Warren (Mich.)

Deutz, H., 153

Devey, George, 453(12)[261], 454(12)[263], 454(12)[266]-[267]

_Dictionnaire raisonné_ (Viollet-le-Duc), 176

Dierschke, Werner, 417

Diet, A.-N., 49

Dijon, Saint-Pierre, 109; theatre, 13

Döcker, Richard, 467(23)[488]

Dobson, John, 68, 70

Dodington House (Glos.), 2

Doesburg, Theo van, 363, 366, 368, 377

Dollmann, Georg von, 154; _84_

Domenech Montaner, Luis, 305

‘Dom-Ino’ project, 366

Dommey, E.-T., 136

Donaldson, T. L., 125, 448(8)[187]

Doric, Greek, xxii, 4, 439(int.)[4]

Dornach, Goetheanum, 364, 464(22)[448]

Dortsmann, Adriaen, 42

Dos Santos de Carvalho, Eugenio, 57

Douillard, L.-P. and L.-C., 50; _20_

Dow, Alden, 462(19)[414]

Downing, A. J., 89, 104, 256, 257-259, fig. 22

Downton Castle (Salop), 4

Doyle, J. F., 216, 219

Drake & Lasdun, 410

Draveil, 48

Dresden, Am Elbberg, houses, 111; Art Gallery, 37; Cholera Fountain, 37, 111; Crematorium, 341; Exhibitions, (1897), 293; (1906), 337; Hoftheater, 153; Johanniskirche, 198; Kreuzschule, 198; Military hospital, 153; Opera House (first), 37, fig. 8; (second), 150; Oppenheim, Palais, 37; Sophienkirche, 198; Synagogue, 37

Dreux (E.-et-L.), Chapelle-Saint-Louis, 107

Drew, Jane, 386

Dromore Castle (Co. Limerick), 451(10)[234]

Droz, Jacques, 463(20)[427]

Duban, J.-F., 52, 134, 140-141, 442(3)[63]; _72_

Du Barry, Mme, xxiv

Dublin, Crystal Palace, 126; Kildare Street Club, 176, 181; Liffey Bridge, 118; Nelson Pillar, 4; Trinity College Museum, 176

Duc, L.-J., 49, 120, 136

Dudok, W. M., 359, 363-364, 379, 468(23)[508]; _157_

Duiker, Johannes, 378

Dulong, E.-A.-R., 294

Dulwich, _see_ London

Dupuy, Alfonso, 56

Duquesney, F.-A., 50, 123; _22_

Durand, J.-N.-L., xxiv, xxvi, 19, 20ff., figs. 2, 3; atelier, 312

Durand-Gasselin, 120

Durham (N.C.), Duke University, 401

Dusillion, P.-C., 47-48, 133

Düsseldorf, Garden and Art Exhibition, 338; Gesolei, 345; Haus der Glas-Industrie, 417; Mannesmann offices, 341; Pempelfort Haus, 417; Thyssen Haus, 433; _191_; Tietz (Kaufhof) store, 338; Wilhelm Marx Haus, 344-345

Dutert, C.-L.-F., 283

E

Ealing, _see_ London (St Mary’s)

East Cowes Castle (I.o.W.), 3

East Hartford (Conn.), Olmsted house, 263

Eastlake style, 457(15)[335]

Eastnor (Herefs.), Castle, 3

Eatington Park (War.), 177

Eaton Hall (Cheshire), 3, 117

Ebe, Gustav, 155

Ebe & Benda, 155-156

Ecclesiological Society, 445(6)[124]

_Ecclesiologist_, 101, 113, 175, 445(6)[124]

Eccleston (Cheshire), church, 3

École des Beaux-Arts, 144, 170

Edensor (Derbysh.), 95

_Édifices de Rome moderne_ (Letarouilly), 47

Edinburgh, British Linen Bank, St Andrews Square, 72; Choragic Monument, 71; Commercial Bank of Scotland, George Street, 72; Free Church College, 71; _34_; Hall of Physicians, 72; High School, 71-72; Life Association of Scotland building, 236; Melville Column, 71; National Gallery, 71; _34_; National Monument, 71; Observatory, 71; Royal Scottish Institution, 71; _34_; Scott Monument, 98; _51_; Tolbooth St John’s, 71; Waterloo Place, 71

Edis, R. W., 217

Eesteren, Cornelis van, 368, 377

Egan, J. J., 169

Egle, Joseph von, 153

Egyptian mode, xxiii, 7, 439(int.)[7]

Ehrhardt, 111

Ehrmann, 148

Eidlitz, Leopold, 89, 90, 104, 105, 168, 223

Eiermann, Egon, 417, 430

Eiffel, Gustave, 251, 282-283; _130_

Eisenlohr, Friedrich, 28

Elberon (N.J.), Newcomb house, 227, 268; _125_

Elevators, _see_ Lifts

Elliott, Archibald, 71

Ellis, Harvey, 227

Ellis, Peter, 238; _114_

Elms, Harvey Lonsdale, 70; _34_

Elmes, James, 77

Elmslie, George G., 249; _see also_ Purcell & Elmslie

Elstree (Herts.), The Leys, 279

Elvethan Park (Hants.), 179

Emerson, W. R., 227, 265, 266, fig. 26

Emmett, J. T., 101

‘Empire’ style, xxvii, 9

Endell, August, 296

Engelhart, Michel, 150

_Englische Baukunst der Gegenwart_ (Muthesius), 281

_Englisches Haus_ (Muthesius), 281

Ensor, James, 286

_Entretiens_ (Viollet-le-Duc), 197, 283, 452(11)[252]

Eppenhausen, bath-house, 341-342; Cuno house, 339; _148_; Schröder house, 339; _148_

Ericson, Sigfrid, 396; _175_

Esherick, Joseph, 425

Esmonnot, L.-D.-G., 109

Espérandieu, H.-J., 138, 143; _70_

_Esprit Nouveau_, 367, 368, 370

_Essai sur l’architecture_ (Laugier), xxii

Etex, Antoine, 10

Etzel, Karl, 123; _66_

Eugénie, Empress, 137, 138

Eustache, H.-T.-E., 11

Éveux-sur-L’Arbresle, La Tourette monastery, _168_

Exeter (Devon), Markets, 73

Expressionism, 344, 462(20)[422], 464(22)[447]

Eyre, Wilson, 269

F

Faaborg, Museum, 396, 397

Fabiani, Max, 297, 351

Fabri, F. X., 57

Fabris, Emilio de, 200

Fairbairn, Sir William, 117, 122, 127, 447(7)[171]

Falling Water (Penna.), 328; _145_

Famin, A.-P.-Ste M., 47

Farmer & Dark, 420

‘Favrile’ glass, 287

Fehn, Sverre, 429

Feininger, Lyonel, 367

Felheimer & Wagner, 469(24)[516]

Félibien, J.-F., 439(int.)[2]

Ferrer, Miguel, 471(25)[543]

Fersenfeld, 100; _57_

Ferstel, Heinrich von, 39, 112, 147-148; _99_

Feszl, Frigyes, 151

Feuerbach, Anselm, 149

Feure, Georges de, 296

Figini, Luigi, 382

Figini & Pollini, 382, 418-420

Finley, James, 447(7)[158]

Finsbury, _see_ London (Worship Street)

Fiocchi, Annibale, 417, 420

Fire-resistance, 446(7)[148]

Fischer, Karl von, 18

Fischer, Theodor, 342, 364, 463(21)[436]

Fischer, Vilhelm, 395

Fisker, Kay, 360, 381, 397, 414; _185_

Flachat, Eugène, 50

Flagg, Ernest, 250

Flattich, Wilhelm, 148

Flete (Devon), 216

Florence, Cathedral, façade, 200; Piazza della Repubblica, 145; Railway Station, 382; Santa Croce, façade, 200

Florence, H. L., 162

Foley, J. H., 182

Fontaine, P.-F.-L., 8, 10, 13, 43, 447(7)[152]; _6_, _18_

Fontainebleau (S.-et-M.), 13

Fonthill Abbey (Wilts.), 2, 3

Fontseré, Eduardo, 201

Forest Hill, _see_ London (Horniman Museum)

Forsmann, F. G. J., 27; _see also_ Wimmel & Forsmann

Förster, Emil von, 150

Förster, Ludwig, 40, 147; _74_

Foster, John, 68

Fowke, Francis, 164; _83_

Fowler, Charles, 73, 120

Fox, Sir Charles, 125

Fox & Henderson, 125-126; _64_

Fraenkel, W., 148

Francis, H., 162

Francis Joseph, 40

Francis Brothers, 160

Frank, Josef, 351

Frankfort, circular hall, 342; I. G. Farben Co., 344

Frankfort (Kentucky), Kentucky State Capitol, 84

Frazee, John, 444(5)[100]

Frederick the Great Monument, project by Gilly, 16; _9_

Frederick William IV, 32-33, 35

Fredericton (N.B.), Anglican Cathedral, 106

Freiburg, church, 28; station, 28

Freyssinet, E., 312, 433, 434

Frézier, A.-F., 439(int.)[2]

Fries, A.-J.-F., 45

Frizzi, Giuseppe, 55; _26_

Froehlicher, C.-M.-A., 48; _see also_ Grisart & Froehlicher

Froger, Willem Anthony, 42

From, H. C., 40

Fry, E. Maxwell, 382, 386, 387

Führich, J., 148

Fuller, Buckminster, 433, 471(25)[544]

Fuller, Thomas, 168, 195

Fuller & Jones, 195; _97_

Fuller & Laver, 168, 169, 452(11)[251]

Functionalism, xxviii

Furness, Frank, 194-195; _95_

Futurism, 468(23)[495]

G

Gabriel, A.-J., 11, 446(6)[139]

Galia, José Miguel, 416

Gallé, Émile, 287

Gandy, J. M., 92

Garabit, Pont de, 282

Garbett, Edward, 96

Garches (S.-et-O.), Les Terrasses, 371; _160_; Nubar house, 314

Garden, Hugh M. G., 462(19)[415]

_Garden Cities of Tomorrow_ (Howard), 405

Garden City movement, 405

Gardiner (Maine), Oaklands, 103

Gardner, Eugene C., 264

Garling, Henry B., 159

Garnier, J.-L.-C., 137-138, fig. 15; _70_, _71_

Garnier, Tony, 317-319

Garraf, Bodega Güell, 305

Gärtner, Friedrich von, 25ff., 38; _10_, _17_

Gau, F.-C., 46, 108, 122; _55_

Gaudí i Cornet, Antoni, 166, 201-204, 301-305, figs. 17, 35; _96_, _135-137_

Gauguin, Paul, 286

Gávea, Niemeyer’s house, 424-425

_Gedanken über die Nachahmung der griechischen Werke_ (Winckelmann), xxiii

Geiger, Theodor, 165

Geneva, Maison Clarté, 384; Palace of the League of Nations, 373

Genoa, Camposanto di Staglieno, 54; Galleria Mazzini, 146, 450(8)[204]; Teatro Carlo Felice, 54

Genovese, Gaetano, 54

Gentofte Komune, Øregaard School, 397; _176_

Gentz, Heinrich, 17

George III, xxi

George IV, 59, 94

George, Sir Ernest, 215

George & Peto, 215; _104_

_Geschichte der Kunst des Altertums_ (Winckelmann), 439(int.)[5]

Gesellius, Herman, 360

Gibberd, Frederick, 382, 423

Gibson, John, 163

Giedion, Sigfried, 439(int.)[1]

Gilbert, Bradford Lee, 244

Gilbert, Cass, 250, 399; _178_

Gilbert, E.-J., 50

Gildemeister, Charles, 126

Giles, John, 161; _80_

Gill, Irving, 332, 334-335; _147_

Gillet, Guillaume, 430

Gilly, David, 16

Gilly, Friedrich, 16, 29; _9_

Gilman, Arthur, 168, 169, 239

Gingell, William B., 236

Gisors, A.-J.-B.-G. de, 8, 10, 12

Gisors, H.-A.-G. de, 47, 51, 133

Gisors, J.-P. de, 8

Glaesel, H., 157

Glasgow, Caledonia Road Free Church, 61-62; _29_; Independent Church, 101; Jamaica Street warehouse, 124, 235; Martyrs’ Public School, 298; Miss Cranston’s tea-rooms, 298, 300; Moray Place, Strathbungo, 72; _35_; Municipal and County Buildings, 72; Queen’s Park Church, 62; Royal Exchange, 72; St Vincent Street church, 62; School of Art, 298-299, 300; _132_, _135_; Scotland Street School, 300

Glass, use of, xxix, 115ff.

Glen Andred (Sussex), 208-209, 261; _102_

Glenbegh Towers (Co. Kerry), 451(10)[234]

Glencoe (Ill.), Booth house, 325; Glasner house, 323, fig. 39

Glenorchy (Tasmania), Presbyterian church, 105

Godalming (Surrey), The Orchards, 278

Godde, É.-H., 43, 44, 48; _22_

Godefroy, Maximilien, 6-7

Godwin, E. W., 185, 208, 213, 215, 217, 220, 237; _92_, _113_

Godwin, George, 128

Gondoin, Jacques, 8, 10

Gonzalez Velasquez, Isidro, 57

Goodhue, Bertram G., 333, 400

Goodwin, Francis, 69

Gosford Castle (Armagh), 444(6)[108]

Gospel Oak, _see_ London (St Martin’s)

Göteborg, Jubilee Exhibition, 397; Masthugg Church, 396; _175_; Röhss Museum, 397

Goust, L., 10

Gradenigo, Antonio, 56; _23_

Graff, Frederick, 7

Graham, James Gillespie, 71

Grain elevators, 312

Grainger, Thomas, 69-70

_Grammar of Ornament_ (Jones), 243

‘Grand Durand’, 441(2)[40]

Grandjean de Montigny, A.-H.-V., xxvi, 23, 25, 90, 91

Grand Rapids (Mich.), Jewish Community Centre, 387

Grange-Blanche, _see_ Lyons (Herriot Hospital)

Grange Park (Hants.), 4-5

Granpré-Molière, M. J., 391

Grässel, Hans, 338

Great Maytham (Kent), 405

Great Warley (Essex), St Mary the Virgin, 292-293

Greet Jan de, 42

Green, John, 70

Green, J. H., 86

Green, W. Curtis, 402

Greenaway, Kate, 209

Greene & Greene, 332, 333-334; _147_

Greenough, Horatio, 85

Greenway, Francis, 91, 105

Greenwood (Louisiana), 82

Gregan, J. E., 235

Grégoire, H.-C.-M., 108

Grenoble, Lycée, 142; Tour d’Orientation, 314

Grim’s Dyke (Middx.), 210

Grisart, J.-L.-V., 48; _see also_ Grisart & Froehlicher

Grisart & Froehlicher, 120; _62_

Gropius, Martin, 153

Gropius, Walter, 361, 363, 364, 367-368, 373-375, 376-377, 382, 383, 387, 388, fig. 48; _158_, _161-162_

Grosch, C. H., 41

Grosz, Josef, 148

Guben, Wolf house, 375

Guerrieri, A., 145

Guimard, Hector, 293, 294-295; _137_

Guizot, 48

Gutton, H.-B., 295

Gwrych Castle (Denbighsh.), 93, 94; _49_

H

Hadfield, George, 6, 81

Hagen, G. B., 397; _176_

Hagen, Folkwang Museum, 337

Haggerston, _see_ London (St Chad’s)

Hagley Park (Worcs.), xxii, 4

Hague, Thomas, 237

Hahr, Erik, 396

Haifa, Government Hospital, 387

Halifax (Yorks.). Town Hall, 160; _78_

Hallams, The, (Surrey), 209

Halle, Museum of Prehistory, 343

Haller, Martin, 450(9)[206]

Hallet, É.-S., 6

Hamburg, Alster Arcade, 28; Chilehaus, 344; _153_; Exchange, 27; Johanneum, 27; _11_; Kunstgewerbe Haus, 342; Nikolaikirche, 100; _52_; Opera House, old, 32; Petrikirche, 100, 112; _57_; Post, Alte, 28; Railway Station, 342; Rathaus, 155; competition (1876), 450(9)[206]

Hamilton, David, 72

Hamilton, Gavin, xxi

Hamilton, Thomas, 71

Hampstead, _see_ London (Greenaway house, St Paul’s)

Hankar, Paul, 460(16)[379]

Hanover, Continental Rubber Building, 417; Opera House, 37-38; _14_

Hansen, C. F., 15, 40; _4_

Hansen, H. C., 38

Hansen, Theophil von, 38, 40, 147, 148, 149; _72_

Hansen & Hygom, 396

Hansom, Joseph A., 69

Hardwick, Philip, 68, 101, 121, 133

Hardwick, P. C., 101, 133

Hardwick, Thomas, 66, 442(3)[67]

Harlaxton (Lincs.), 99

Harmon, Arthur Loomis, 400; _see also_ Shreve, Lamb & Harmon

Harris, Thomas, 179, 452(11)[235], 463(21)[433]

Harris (R.I.), Governor Harris Manufactory, 86

Harrison, Wallace K., 415

Harrison & Abramowitz, 403, 415

Harrison, Thomas, 4

Harrow (Middx.), Harrow School, Speech Room, 180

Hartford (Conn.), Cheney Block, 223, 238-239; _116_; Memorial Arch, 188; Connecticut State Capitol, 195; Trinity College, 187-188; _88_

Hartley, Jesse, 440(1)[22]

Harvey, John, 442(3)[67]

Hasenauer, Karl von, 150; _73_

Hastings, Thomas, 468(23)[492]; _see also_ Carrère & Hastings

Hatfield, R. G., 124

Hauberrisser, G. J. von, 199

Haussmann, G.-E., 137, 140, 448(8)[184]

Havana, Malecón, 172; Retiro Odontológico, 416

Haviland, John, 50, 77, 78, 447(7)[171], fig. 11

Havre, _see_ Le Havre

Hawarden (Flintsh.), 3

Heger, Franz, 37

Heideloff, K. A. von, 112

Heise, F., 153

Held, 16

Helensburgh (Dunbartonsh.), Hill House, 299

Helfreich, W. G., 467(22)[479]

Hellerau, Art Colony, 339

Helmle & Corbett, 402

Helsinki, National Museum, 360; Railway Station, 360

Hemming, Samuel, 101

Hennebique, François, 309

Hennigsdorf, A.E.G. housing estate, 340, 343

Hentrich & Petschnigg, 417; _191_

Herculaneum, xxii

Héret, L.-J.-A., 142

Herholdt, J. D., 41, 125

Herrenchiemsee, Schloss, 154

Hesketh, Lloyd Bamforth, 93

Hesse, A., 35

Hetsch, G. F., 41

Hietzing, 14-16 Gloriettegasse, 351; Scheu house, 352, fig. 43; 155

High-and-Over (Bucks.), 470(24)[465]

Highclere Castle (Hants.), 73, 257; _37_

Highgate, _see_ London (Highpoint)

Highland Park (Ill.), Willitts house, 321, fig. 38; _142_

Hilversum, Bavinck School, 363; _157_; Public Baths, 363

Hindenburg, Sankt Josef, 345

Hinderton (Cheshire), 259

Historicism, 469(24)[511]

Hitler, Adolf, 9

Hittorff, J.-I., 45, 47, 49, 135, 136-137, 443(3)[64], 456(8)[188], fig. 9; _19_

Hitzig, Friedrich, 152, 153; _77_

Hoban, James, 6, 79

Hobart (Tasmania), St John’s, 105

_Hobby Horse_, 275, 285

Höchst, I. G. Farben Co., 343-344

Hodler, Ferdinand, 286

Hoffmann, Joseph, 297, 349, 350-351; _154_

Hoffmann, Julius, 154

Hoffmann, Ludwig, 336

Hoffmann, Theodor, 148

Höger, Fritz, 344; _153_

Hog’s Back (Surrey), Sturgis house, 276; _129_

Hohenschwangau, 111

Holabird, William, 243; _see also_ Holabird & Roche

Holabird & Roche, 226, 243-244, 248, 250; _120_

Holford, Sir William, 414

Holland, Henry, 67, 94

Honeyman, John, 298

Honeyman & Keppie, 298

Hood, Raymond, 360, 361, 401

Hook of Holland, housing estate, 378; _163_

Hooke, Robert, 440(1)[21]

Hooker, Philip, 88

Hope, Thomas, 4

Hopedene (Surrey), 210

Hopkins, Bishop, 445(6)[128]

Hopper, Thomas, 117, 444(6)[108]; _60_

Horeau, Hector, 121, 125

Horsforth (Yorks.), Cookridge Convalescent Hospital, 209

Horta, Victor, 287ff., 300, fig. 34; _130-132_

_Houses and Gardens_ (Baillie Scott), 277, fig. 33

Houston (Texas), Rice Institute, 401

Hove (Sussex), St Andrew’s, 72

Howard, Ebenezer, 405

Howard, Henry, 82

Howard, John Galen, 243, 333

Howe, George, 381, 383; _see also_ Howe & Lescaze

Howe & Lescaze, 415; _169_

Howells, John Mead, 360

Hoxie, J. C., 237

Hoxie, Samuel K., 237

Hoxton, _see_ London (St Saviour’s)

Hübsch, Heinrich, 23, 28, 286; _11_

Huddersfield (Yorks.), station, 68

Hudnut, Joseph, 388, 468(23)[498]

Hugo, Victor, 48

Hull (Yorks.), Congregational Chapel, Great Thornton St, 61

Hunt, Richard M., 166, 167, 169, 170, 192, 239, 263, 455(13)[287]

Hunt, T. R, fig. 21

Hurstpierpoint (Sussex), St John’s College, 101

Hussey, Christopher, 93

Hutchinson, Henry, 96; _50_

Huvé, J.-J.-M., 11, 49

Huyot, J.-N., 10

I

I’Anson, Edward, 235

Idlewild Airport (N.Y.), 423

Ile des Épis (Bas-Rhin), monument, 17

Ilkley (Yorks.), Heathcote, 404; St Margaret’s, 216

Impington (Cambs.), Village College, 387

‘Indian Revival’, 3

Indianapolis (Ind.), Indiana State Capitol, 84, 103

Ingres, J.-A.-D., 107, 286, 442(3)[63]

_Innendekoration_, 285

‘International’ style, 363

_International Style_ (Hitchcock and Johnson), 380

_In welchem Styl sollen wir bauen?_ (Hübsch), 23

Inwood, H. W., 61

Inwood, William, 61

Iofan, B. M., 467(22)[468]

_Ionian Antiquities_, 4

Ionic order, Greek, xxiv

Isabelle, C.-E., 46

Isaeus, P. M. R., 42, 157

Istanbul, British Embassy, 74; Crimean Memorial Church, 200; Hilton Hotel, 383; mosque by D’Aronco, 301

Italian Villas, 254

Itten, Adolf, 367

Ivrea, Olivetti plant, 418

J

‘Jack-arches’, 117

Jacquemin-Belisle, Charles, 50

Jäger, Franz, 18

_Japonisme_, 208, 284

Jappelli, Giuseppe, 56; _23_

Jareño y Alarcón, Francisco, 166

Jeanneret, C.-É., _see_ Le Corbusier

Jeanneret, Pierre, 384, 386, 466(22)[470]

Jearrad, W. C. and R., 87

Jefferson, Thomas, 5, 79, 81, fig. 12; _38_

Jekyll, Gertrude, 278

Jena, theatre, 467(22)[481]

Jenney, William LeBaron, 226, 241, 242, 245; _117_; _see also_ Jenney & Mundie

Jenney & Mundie, 245, 250

Jensen, A. C., 157

Jensen, Ferdinand, 156, fig. 16

Jensen Klint, P. V., 360, 395, 396; _175_

Jerusalem, Hadassah University, 387

Jessop, William, 5

Jettmar, Rudolf, 350

Johansson, Aron, 157

Johnson, Philip, 380, 389, 423, 424, 425, fig. 57; _190_, _192_

Johnston, Francis, 4

Johnston, William, 237

Joldwynds (Surrey), 213

Joly, J.-J.-B. de, 8, 51

Jones, Herbert Chilion, 195; _97_

Jones, Jenkin Lloyd, 270

Jones, Owen, 126, 235, 238, 243

Jory, H. H., 196

Jourdain, C.-R.-F.-M., 295; _133_

_Jugend_, 284, 292

_Jugendstil_, 284, 347-348

Jujol Gibert, J. M., 305

Jüngst, K. A., 343

K

Kaftanzoglou, Lyssander, 38, 39

Kahn, Albert, 361, 403, 461(18)[398]

‘Kahn Bar’, 461(18)[398]

Kahn, Louis, 429

Kalkos, Panajiotis, 38

Kamenz, Schloss, 36

Kamerlingh Onnes, M., 366

Kampmann, Hack, 395, 396, 397; _173_

Kandinsky, Wassily, 367

Kankakee (Ill.), Bradley house, 273; Hickox house, 273-274, fig. 31; _142_

Kansas City (Missouri), 227; New York Life Insurance Co., 244

Karlsruhe, Art Gallery, 28; Catholic church, 18; City Hall, 22; Dammerstock housing estate, 374; Ettlinger Gate, 17; Markgräfliches Palais, 18; Marktplatz, 17-18, 22-23, fig. 1; _10_; Ministry of Finance, 28; Railway Station, 28, 342; Rondellplatz, 18; Technische Hochschule, 28; Theatre, 28; Weinbrenner’s house, 17

Katwijk, Allegonda, 366

Kaufmann, Emil, xxviii

Kaufmann, Oskar, 343

Keeling, Bassett, 180

Keller, G. W., 188

Kellum, John W., 124

Kelly, Nathan B., 444(5)[93]

Kemp, G. Meikle, 98; _51_

Kensington, _see_ London (All Saints’, Burges house, Geological Museum, Howard house, Lowther Lodge, St Dunstan’s Road, Science Museum, Thackeray house, Victoria and Albert Museum)

Kerr, Peter, 171

Kew, _see_ London

Khnopff, Fernand, 286

Kilburn, _see_ London (St Augustine’s)

Killy Moon (Co. Tyrone), 3

Kilmacolm (Renfrewsh.), Windy Hill, 299

Kimball, Edward, 239

Kimball, Fiske, 439(int.)[1]

Kinmel Park (Denbighsh.), 208, 211

Kleanthis, Stamathios, 38-39

Klee, Paul, 367

Klenze, Leo von, 18, 23ff., 26, 38, fig. 4; _9_, _16_

Klerk, Michael de, 357-359; _156_

Klieber, J., 39

Klimt, Gustav, 295, 351

Klint, P. V. Jensen, _see_ Jensen Klint

Klumb, Henry, 422, 462(19)[414]

Knapp, J. M., 38

Knight, John G., 171

Knight, Richard Payne, 3-4

Knoblauch, Eduard, 33

Knowles, Sir James T., 160-161, 236

Knox & Elliot, 249

Koch, Alexander, 281, 285

Koch, Gaetano, 145, 146; _76_

Koerfer, Jacob, 345

Kolberg, Town Hall, 33, 111

König, Karl, 151

Korngold, Lucjan, 416

Kornhäusel, Josef, 39

Krafft, J. C., 441(2)[41]

Krahe, P. J., 16

Kramer, P. L., 357-359; _156_

Krefeld, Esters house, 375; Lange house, 375

Kreis, Wilhelm, 343, 344-345

Kristensen, Eske, _185_

Kromhout, Willem, 356

Kühne, M. H., 342

Kumasi, Technical College, 420

Kumlien, A. F. and K. H., 157

Kump, Ernest J., 422

_Kunst_, 292

L

Labarre, E.-E. de, 12

Labrouste, F.-M.-T., 51

Labrouste, Henri-P.-F., 51, 53, 123, 128, fig. 14; _21_, _69_

La Chaux de Fond, Le Corbusier’s parents’ house, 366

Lacornée, Jacques, 12, 52

La Croix-Rousse, _see_ Lyons (textile school)

_Ladies Home Journal_, 273, 274

LaFarge, John, 223

Lafever, Minard, 78

La Jolla (Cal.), Scripps house, 334

Lakeland (Fl.), Florida Southern College, 330

Lake Windermere (Lancs.), Blackwell house, 277; Broadleys, 276, fig. 32; _129_

Lallerstedt, Erik, 397

Laloux, V.-A.-F., 399; _183_

Lamandé, 119

Lamb, E. B., 180

La Mouche, _see_ Lyons (Municipal Slaughterhouse)

Lancing (Sussex), Lancing College, 100-101

Langhans, K. F., 33

Langhans, K. G., 16

La Padulla, 409

Lassaw, Ibrahim, 423

Lassus, J.-B.-A., 108, 141

Latrobe, Benjamin H., 6, 7, 79, 80, 81, 83, 256; _5_

Laugier, M.-A., xxii, xxiii, 59

Lausanne, Lunatic Asylum, 53

Laver, Augustus, 168, 195; _see also_ Fuller & Laver, Stent & Laver

Laves, G. L. F., 37-38; _14_

La Villette, _see_ Paris (Saint-Jacques-Saint-Christophe)

Laybourne-Smith, Lewis, 196

Lazo, Carlos, _184_

Leadville (Col.), Hotel Vendome, 162

League of Nations, project for Palace of the, 373

Leamington (War.), St Peter’s, 179; _89_

Lebas, L.-H., 12, 44, 49-50; _18_

Leblanc, Abbé, xxii

LeBrun, Napoleon, 236, 250

Leclerc, A.-F.-R., 28, 45

Lecointe, J.-F.-J., 50

Leconte, E.-C., 8, 13

Le Corbusier, xxviii, 364, 366, 367, 368ff., 376-377, 382ff., 414, 415, 429, 435, figs. 44-47, 51; _159-160_, _165-168_

Ledoux, C.-N., xxiv-xxvi, 9; _1_

Ledru, L.-C.-F., 44

Leeds (Yorks.), 46-47 Boar Lane, 238; Christ Church, 96; Corn Exchange, 76; _37_; Town Hall, 76, 158; _78_; 1-2 York Place, 238

Leeds, W. H., 73

Leek (Staffs.), All Saints’, 216

Leeuwarden, Palace of Justice, 42

Lefranc, P.-B., 107

Lefuel, H.-M., 134; _68_

Léger, Fernand, 367

Legrand, J.-G., 119

Le Havre, Museum and Library, 48; Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, 316-317; _140_

Leins, C. F., 38

Leinweber, Joseph W., 423

Leipzig, Gewandhaus, 153-154; Imperial Law Courts, 336; Railway Station, 342; Weststrasse church, 112

Lelong, Paul, 120

Lemaire, 11

L’Enfant, P.-C., 6, 78

Leningrad, _see_ Petersburg

Lenné, P. J., 33

Lennox, E. J., 225

Lenoir, V.-B., 50

Lenormand, Louis, 46

León, Casa de los Botines, 202

Lepère, J.-B., 10, 45; _19_

Le Pradet (Var), de Mandrot house, 383-384

Lequeu, J.-J., 110

Lequeux, P.-E., 46, 50

Le Raincy (S.-et-O.), Notre-Dame, 313-314, fig. 37; _141_

Leroy, J.-D., xxii

Lescaze, William E., 381; _169_

Lesueur, J.-B., 46, 48; _22_

Letarouilly, P.-M., 46

Letchworth Garden City (Herts.), 405

Lethaby, W. R., 278

_Lettere sopra l’architettura_ (Algarotti), xxii

Leverton, Thomas, 5

Lewis, M. W., 105

Leyswood (Sussex), 209-310, 261-262, fig. 19; _123_

Lienau, Detlef, 133, 166, 169

_Life_, 329

Lifts, 85, 239

Lille, Cathedral, 100, 179, 181

Lima, Colmena, 170

Lincoln, Abraham, 166

Lincoln (Mass.), Gropius’s house, 388

Lincoln (Neb.), Nebraska State Capitol, 400

Linderhof, Schloss, 154; _84_

Lindgren, A. E., 360

Linz, Austrian Tobacco Administration factory, 346

Lisbon, Garret Theatre, 57; lower city, 57; Municipal Chamber, 57; Palace of Arzuda, 57

Little, Arthur, 227, 228, 265, 269, 455(13)[294]

Liverpool, Bank Chambers, 234; _112_; Brunswick Buildings, 75, 234; Cathedral, 302; 16 Cook Street, 238; Crown Street Station, 121; Custom House, 69; Exchange, 162; Ismay, Imrie & Co. offices, 219; Lime Street Station, 68, 121; Oriel Chambers, 238; _114_; Parr’s Bank, 219; St Anne’s, 116; St George’s, Everton, 117; St George’s Hall, 70; _34_; St Margaret’s, 186; St Michael’s, Toxteth Road, 117-118; St Oswald’s, Old Swan, 99; St Philip’s, Hardman Street, 118

Lockwood, F. H., 61

Lockwood & Mawson, 126-127, 237; _114_

Lockyer, James, 236

Lodi, Fortunato, 57

Lodoli, Carlo, xxii

Loghem, J. J. van, 359

Lombardi, 55

London, Ackroydon housing estate, Putney, 421; Adelaide House, 408; Albert Hall, 164; Albert Hall Mansions, 216; _104_; Albert Memorial, 181-182; _90_; Alford House, 162; _83_; Alliance Assurance, St James’s Street, 217; All Hallows, London Wall, xxvi; (Shirlock Street), 185; All Saints’, Camden Street, 61; (Margaret Street), 173-174; _85-86a_; (Talbot Road), 174; All Souls’, Langham Place, 64; Apsley House, 67; _31_; Army and Navy Club, 75, 236; Ascension, church of the, Battersea, 184-185; Athenaeum Club, 68; Bank of England, 1-2, 60, 117, 407; _3_, _4_, _28_; Barclays Bank, Piccadilly, 402; Baring Brothers offices, 8 Bishopsgate, 217; Bedford Park, 215; (Forster house), 275; Bedford Square, 5; Belgrave Square, 69; Bishopsgate Institute, 292; Board Schools, 212; Boyce house, Glebe Place, Chelsea, 211, 263; Bricklayer’s Arms Station, 76; Bridgewater House, 74-75; Britannic House, 408; British Museum, 67-68; _33_; (Edward VII wing), 408; Broad Sanctuary, 175; Buckingham Palace, 66, 75-76, 122; Burges house, Melbury Road, Kensington, 188; Bush House, 402, 408; 62, 68, 72 Cadogan Square, 215; Cambridge Gate, 163; Camden Church, Peckham Road, 175; _118_ Campden Hill Road, 209; Cannon Street Hotel, 160; Carlton Club, 75, 236; Carlton Hotel, 162; Carlton House conservatory, 117; _60_; Carlton House Terrace, 63, 64; Cecil Hotel, 162; Charing Cross Hotel, 160; Chelsea Hospital, stables, 59; _28_; 8-11 Chelsea Embankment, 215; Cheyne House, Chelsea, 214, 260; _37-39_

Cheyne Walk, 279;

Christ Church, Streatham, 74; _36_;

Churchill Gardens housing estate, Pimlico, 421; Clapham Common, terraces, 161; Coal Exchange, 123; _63_; College of Physicians, 67; Collingham Gardens, 215; Columbia Market, 451(10)[233]; Constitution Hill Arch, 67; Corn Exchange, 68; 65; Cornhill, 160; Cornwall Terrace, 66; Court of Chancery, Westminster, 62; Covent Garden Theatre, 4; Crown Life Office, Blackfriars, 236; Crystal Palace, 124-126; _64_; Crystal Palace Bazar, 251; Cumberland Terrace, 66; _32_; Devonshire House, 402; Duke of York’s Column, 63; Dulwich Gallery, 59; Eaton Square, 69; Euston Square, 5; Euston Station, 68, 121; Exhibition (1851), 124-126; 64; (1862), 164; 22 Finch Lane, 237-238; Fishmongers’ Hall, 68; Foreign Office, 159; Freemasons’ Hall, 62; Gaiety Theatre, 207; General Post Office, 68; Geological Museum, 75; Gilbert house, Harrington Gardens, 215; _104_; Grand Hotel, 162; Great Western Hotel, 133;

Greenaway house, 39 Frognal, Hampstead, 209; Grosvenor Estate, 69, 408; Grosvenor Hotel, 160; Grosvenor Place, 162-163; _80_; Grosvenor Square, 63; Guards’ Chapel, Wellington Barracks, 186; Hampstead Garden City, 405, fig. 54; 14-16 Hans Road, 276; Harrington Gardens, 215; Haymarket Theatre, 64; Heal’s store, 236;

Highpoint, Highgate, 381-382; Hodgson’s building, Strand, 236; Holland House, Bury Street, 356-357; _138_; Holloway Gaol, 95; Holy Redeemer, Clerkenwell, 406; Holy Saviour, Aberdeen Park, 179; Holy Trinity, Latimer Road, 216; _106_; Hope house, Piccadilly, 133;

Horniman Museum, 292; Houses of Parliament, 73, 98, 116, 122; _54_; Howard house, Palace Green, Kensington, 211; Hungerford Market, 73; (fish pavilion), 119; Hyde Park Corner Screen, 66-67; _31_; Imperial Institute, 219; Kew Gardens, lodge, 208, fig. 18; (New Palace), 117; (Palm Stove), 121; _67_; King’s Cross Station, 76, 127; _66_; Lancaster Gate, 160; Langham Hotel, 161; _80_; Law Courts, 186; Litchfield House, 15 St James’s Square, 4; Lincoln’s Inn, Hall and Library, 101; 19 Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 211; London Docks, 5; London and Westminster Bank, Lothbury, 68; Lonsdale Square, 99; Loughborough Road housing estate, 421; _186_; Lower Regent Street, 63; Lowther Gardens, 215; Lowther Lodge, 213, 263; Marble Arch, 67; 60 Mark Lane, 185, 237; Marylebone Parish Church, 66;

Merchant Seamen’s Orphan Asylum, Wanstead, 181; Midland Bank, Leadenhall Street, 408; (Piccadilly), 408; (Poultry), 407-408; Midland Hotel, St Pancras, 188; Montagu House, 162; Monument, 440(1)[21]; National Gallery, 67; National Provincial Bank, Bishopsgate, 163; Nelson Column, 67; Newgate Prison, xxvi; New Scotland Yard, 217-218; _106_; New Zealand Chambers, 212-213; Notre-Dame-de-France, Leicester Square, 128; Old Swan House, 17 Chelsea Embankment, 214, 263; _103_; Our Lady of Victories, Clapham, 106; Oxford Circus, 64; 76 Oxford Street, 235; Paddington housing estate, 410; Paddington Station, 127; _65_; 19 Park Lane, 101; Park Square, 64; Park Villages, 66, 254; Peter Jones store, 382; Piccadilly Circus, 63; _30_; Piccadilly Hotel, 206, 220; _107_; 40-42 Pont Street, 215; Portland Place, 64; Prinsep house, 14 Holland Park Road, Kensington, 211, 263; Quadrant, 63; Queen’s Gate, 163; (No. 196), 214-215; Record Office, 126; Red House, Bayswater Road, 212; Reform Club, 73; _35_; Regent’s Park, 63, fig. 10; Regent Street, 234; Ritz Hotel, 251, 402, 450(9)[208] Roehampton housing estate, 421; Royal College of Science, 164; Royal Exchange, 69; Royal Exchange Buildings, 235; Royal Opera Arcade, 64; Russell Square, 5; St Alban’s, Baldwin’s Gardens, 178; St Andrew’s, Coin Street, 177; St Augustine’s, Kilburn, 189; _93_; (Queen’s Gate), 184;

St Chad’s, Haggerston, 184;

17 St Dunstan’s Road, Kensington, 276;

St Faith’s, Stoke Newington, 180; St George’s, Campden Hill, 180; St George’s Hospital, 66-67; _31_; St Giles’s, Camberwell, 100; St James the Less, Thorndike Street, 178; _94_; St James’s Palace, armoury, 211; St Jude’s, Bethnal Green, 74; St Luke’s, Chelsea, 96; (West Norwood), 186; St Mark’s, Notting Dale, 180;

St Martin’s, Gospel Oak, 180; St Martin’s Northern Schools, 174, 235;

St Mary’s, Ealing, 180; (Wyndham Place), 61; St Mary Magdalen’s, Munster Square, 100;

St Matthias’, Stoke Newington, 174; St Michael’s, Shoreditch, 184; St Pancras’, 61; St Pancras Station, 188-190; St Paul’s, Avenue Road, 180;

St Peter’s, Regent’s Square, 61; (Vauxhall), 181; (Walworth), 44, 60;

St Saviour’s, Hoxton, 184; _89_; St Simon Zelotes, Moore Street, 178; St Stephen’s, Rosslyn Hill, 189; St Thomas’s, Camden Town, 179-180; Science Museum, South Kensington, 128; Scotland Yard, _see_ New Scotland Yard; Soane house and museum, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 60; Soane tomb, Old St Pancras churchyard, 60; South Africa House, 407; Sun Assurance Offices, Threadneedle Street, 235; Sussex Place, 66; Swan House, _see_ Old Swan House; Thackeray house, Palace Green, Kensington, 208; Thatched House Club, 161; Tite Street, Chelsea, 217; Travellers’ Club, 72-73; _35_; University College, 66; Victoria and Albert Museum, 163-164; _83_; (refreshment room), 211; _97_; Walton House, Walton Street, 75, 209; War Office, 159; Waterloo Place, 63; 50 Watling Street, 122, 234; West India Docks, 5; Westminster Bank, Piccadilly, 402; Westminster Cathedral, 219; Westminster Insurance Office, Strand, 68; Westminster Palace Hotel, 160, 239; Whistler’s house, _see_ White House; Whitechapel Art Gallery, 292; _134_; Whitehall project (1857), 159;

White house, 170 Queen’s Gate, 218; _105_; White House, 35 Tite Street, 217; W. H. Smith building, Strand, 236; Williams warehouse, Little Britain, 237;

91-101 Worship Street, Finsbury, 182; York Gate, 66; Zoo, gorilla house, 381; (Penguin Pool), 381; _172_

London Airport, 423

London County Council Architect’s Office, 408, 421; _186_

Long & Kees, 225

Loos, Adolf, 297, 349, 352-355, fig. 43; _151_, _155_

Los Angeles, Banning house, 334; Dodge house, 334; _147_; Hollyhock House, 326; Laughlanhouse, 334; Lovell house, 381; Public Library, 400; Sturges house, 330

Lossow, Wilhelm, 342

Loudon, J. C., 95

Louis, J.-V., 116

Louis Philippe, 48

Louvet, L.-A., 293-294

Luban, chemical works, 344

Lubetkin, Berthold, 381-382; _172_; _see also_ Tecton

Lucas, Colin A., 468(23)[493]; _see also_ Connell, Ward & Lucas

Luckenwalde, factory, 364

Ludwig I, 25

Ludwig II, 154

Ludwigshafen, BASF building, 417

Ludwigsschlösser, 154-155

Luksch, Richard, 350

Lululund (Herts.), 463(21)[436]

Lurçat, André, 372

Luscombe (Devon), 3

Lusson, L.-A., 46, 141, 448(7)[178]

Lussy, Château de, 110

Lussy, Édouard, 48

Lutyens, Sir Edwin L., 278-279, 404-9, fig. 54; _181-182_

Lyons, Central Markets, 141; church by Norman Shaw, 183; États-Unis housing estate, 318; Government warehouse, 46;

Herriot Hospital, Grange Blanche, 318; Jardin d’Hiver, 121; Moncey Telephone Office, 318;

Municipal Slaughterhouse, La Mouche, 318; Olympic Stadium, 318; Palais de Justice, 46;

Textile School, La Croix Rousse, 318

M

McArthur, John, 168

McConnel, 235

McKenzie, Voorhees & Gmelin, 400

McKim, Charles F., 196, 221, 226, 227, 230-231; _see also_ McKim, Mead & White

McKim, Mead & White, 227ff., 242, 244, 265, 267-268, 269, 398-399, 402, 455(13)[287], fig. 27; _109_, _111_, _125-127_, _179_

Mackintosh, Charles Rennie, 282, 297-300; _132_, _135_

Mackmurdo, A. H., 275, 276, 285

Mâcon, Saint-Vincent, 12

Madison (Wis.), Unitarian Church, 332

Madrid, Chamber of Commerce, 166; National Library and Museums, 166; Obelisk of the 2nd May, 57; (of La Castellana), 57; Palace of the Congress, 57

Maekawa, Kunio, 429; _187_

Maginnis, Charles D., 223

Magne, A.-J., 138

Magne, Lucien, 143

Maher, George B., 332

Maillart, Robert, 313, 433

_Maisons et palais de Rome moderne_ (Percier and Fontaine), 9

Maitland, Richard, 471(25)[542]

Mallet-Stevens, Robert, 372

Malpièce, A.-J., 45

Manchester, Assize Courts, 185; Athenaeum, 73; Free Trade Hall, 76; Fryer & Binyon warehouse, 236; Jevons warehouse, 122; Midland Bank, King Street, 408; Parker Street warehouse, 235; Royal Institution (Art Gallery), 69; St Wilfrid’s, Hulme, 99; Schwabe Building, 235; Town Hall, 69, 185-186; warehouses, 76

Manfredi, M., 146

Mansard roofs, 132-133

Marchwood (Hants.), power station, 420

Mariateguí, Francisco Javier de, 57

Marienburg, Feinhals house, 337-338; Maria Königin, 345

Marigny, Marquis de, xxii

Mariscal, Federico, 301

Markham Clinton (Notts.), church, 61

Marney, Louis, 294

Marquise, 12

Marseilles, Cannebière, 143; Cathedral, 143; Chamber of Commerce, 144; Exchange, 144; Lazaret, 49; Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde, 144; Palais Longchamps, 138; _70_; Porte d’Aix, 49; Protestant Church, 46; Saint-Lazare, 46; Unité d’Habitation, 385-386, fig. 51; _166_; Vieux-Port, 316

Martin, Sir Leslie, 421

Martin, Nicolas, 122

Martinez de Velasco, Juan, 419

Marylebone, _see_ London

Mason City (Iowa), hotel, 365

Mason, George D., 227

Mataró, La Obrera warehouse, 202

Matas, Niccoló, 200

Matthew, Robert, 421

Maximilian II, 26

May, E. J., 215-216

May, Ernst, 375, 467(22)[480]

Maybeck, Bernard, 333; _146_

Mazzoni, Angiolo, 382

Mazzuchetti, Alessandro, 55, 145

Medford (Mass.), Grace Episcopal Church, 193; _91_

Medling, 342

Meduna, G. B. and Tommaso, 14

Meier-Graefe, Julius, 287

Meij, J. M. van der, 336, 357

Melbourne, English, Scottish and Australian Bank, 196; Government House, 171; Parliament House, 171; Princess Theatre, 171; St Patrick’s Cathedral, 196; St Paul’s Cathedral, 196; Treasury Buildings, 171

Meldahl, Ferdinand, 41, 156

Menai Strait, Britannia Bridge, 69, 123; _61_; Menai Bridge, 118; _59_

Mendelsohn, Erich, 363, 364, 379, 382, 387; _153_

Mengoni, Giuseppe, 120, 146; _75_

Menilmontant, _see_ Paris (Notre-Dame-de-la-Croix)

Mentmore House (Bucks.), 73

Merrill, John O., 468(23)[499]

Merrist Wood (Surrey), 210

Messel, Alfred, 251, 296, 336

Meuron, Auguste de, 28

Mewès, C.-F., 470(24)[523]; _see also_ Mewès & Davis

Mewès & Davis, 251, 402, 450(9)[208]

Mexico City, Calle de Niza, 416; Centro Urbano Presidente Juarez, 421; Nuestra Señora de los Milagros, 345, 420; Palacio de Bellas Artes, 301; Paseo de Reforma, 170; University City, 414; _184_

Meyer, Adolf, 361, 363, 365; _158_

Michelucci, G., 382

Micklethwaite, J. T., 184-185, 188

Middleton (Wis.), Jacobs house, 330, fig. 42

Middletown (Conn.), Alsop house, 88; Russell house, 82

Middletown (R.I.), Sturtevant house, 263; _124_

Mies van der Rohe, Ludwig, xxviii, 364, 365, 368, 375-376, 383, 387, 388-390, 429, figs. 49-50, 52-53; _162_, _165_, _170_, _192_

Milan, Ca’ de Sass, 56; Castiglione, Casa, 47 Corso Venezia, 301; 15 Corso Vittorio Emmanuele, 301; Forum Bonaparte, 13; Galleria de Cristoforis, 120; (Vittorio Emmanuele), 120, 146-147; _75_; La Scala, 56; Lucini, Palazzo, 56; Marino, Palazzo, 147; Olivetti offices, 417; Porta Venezia, 56; Rocca-Saporiti, Palazzo, 56; Serbelloni, Palazzo, 13; Tosi, Casa, 301; Triennale, fifth, 382; Triumphal Arch, 13; Via Verdi, 56

Millais, Sir John, 286

Mills, Robert, 7, 79, 80; _38_

Minneapolis (Minn.), Christ Lutheran Church, 361; _157_; City Hall, 225; Neils house, 332; Willey house, 327, fig. 41

Mique, Richard, 110

Moberly, Arthur Hamilton, 467(23)[493]

Möckel, G. L., 199

‘Modern’ architecture, 307

Moffatt, W. B., 95, 100, 101

Molchow (Brandenburg), 360

Molinos, A.-I., 44

Molinos, J., 119

Møller, C. F., 414

Moller, Georg, 36

Mondrian, Piet, 363, 378

Monferran, A. A., 57-58; _27_

Monkwearmouth (Co. Durham), railway station, 68

Monnier, Joseph, 309

Monol system, 367

Montataire (Oise), Wallut & Grange factory, 312

Montauban (Tarn), Lycée, 142

Mont d’Or, baths, 44

Monte Carlo, Casino, 138

Monterrey, Purísima, 345

Montevideo, 91, 417

Monticello (Va.), 443(5)[89]

Montluçon (Allier), Saint-Paul, 128

Montmagny (S.-et-O.), Sainte-Thérèse, 314

Montmartre, _see_ Paris (Sacré-Cœur)

Montoyer, Louis Joseph von, 18

Montreal, Bank of Montreal, 399; Notre Dame, 106; Windsor Hotel, 171; Windsor Station, 225

Montreux, Villa Karma, 353

Montrouge, _see_ Paris (Ozenfant house)

Montuori, Eugenio, 382; _183_

Mora, Enrique de la, 345

Moral, Enrique del, 423

Moreau, Karl von, 18, 39

Moreira, Jorge, 414

Morey, M.-P., 197

Morris, William, 176, 177, 178, 180, 223, 259, 285, 286; _97_

Mortier, A.-F., _75_

Moscow, Cathedral of the Redeemer, 58; Centrosoyus, 373; Palace of the Soviets, 467(22)[479]

Moseley Brothers, 160

Moser, Karl, 314

Moser, Kolo, 350

Moulins (Allier), Saint-Nicholas, 108

Mount Desert (Maine), house by Emerson, 266, fig. 26

Moutier, A.-J., 45

Moya, Hidalgo, 421

Moya, Juvenal, 346, 422

Mueller, Paul, 326

Mulhouse, 45

Mullet, A. B., 81, 168, 169; _82_

Munch, Edvard, 286, 292

Mundie, William Bryce, 245; _see also_ Jenney & Mundie

Munich, Blindeninstitut, 26; Bonifazius Basilika, 27; Cemetery, East, 338; Court Church, 25; Elvira, Studio, 296; Feldherrenhalle, 26; Glaspalast, 126; Glyptothek, 23-24; _9_; Hauptpostamt, 18; Herzog Max Palais, 26; Karolinenplatz, 18; Königsbau, 18, 25; Königsplatz, 23-24; Library, State, 26; _10_; Ludwigskirche, 26; _10_; Ludwigstrasse, 25-26; Mariahilfkirche, 111; Maximilianstrasse, 26; Max Joseph Stift, 26; National Theatre, 18; Odeonsplatz, 25; Palace of Justice, 338; Pinakothek, Ältere, 25; Propylaeon, 23; Railway Station, 27; Rathaus, 199; Redeemer, Church of the, 342; Ruhmeshalle, 24; Siegestor, 26; Technical High School extension, 343; Törring, Palais, 25; University, 26; (extension), 343; War Office, 26; Wittelsbach, Palais, 27

Munstead Wood (Surrey), 278

Murat, 13

Murat, Caroline, 9

Mussolini, Benito, 9, 409

Muthesius, Hermann, 281

Muuratsälo, Aalto’s house, _182_

Mylne, Robert, xxi

N

Naissant, Claude, 142

Nancy (M.-et-M.), Saint-Epvre, 197

Nantes (Loire-Inf.), Bourse, 13; Cathedral square, 143; Hospice Général, 50; _20_; Passage Pommeraye, 120; Saint-Nicolas, 108; Theatre, 12-13; Tribunal de Commerce, 13

Naples, Galleria Umberto I, 147; Royal Palace, 54; San Carlo Opera House, 13, 54; _23_; San Francesco di Paola, 54; _26_

Napoleon I, 9, 20

Napoleon III, 9, 133-134, 135

Napoléonville, _see_ Pontivy

Nash, John, 3, 59, 62ff., 93, 94, 117, 234, 254, fig. 10; _30_, _32_, _48_, _50_, _58_

Nashdom (Bucks.), 404-405

Nashville (Tenn.), Belle Meade, 82; Maxwell House, 88; Tennessee State Capitol, 84

Natchez (Miss.), Longwood, 105, 254; plantation houses, 82

National Provincial Bank branches, 163

Nénot, P.-H., 373

‘Neo-Brutalism’, 430

‘Neo-Liberty’, 412

Neoplasticists, 366

Nervi, Pierluigi, 420, 433, 461(18)[400], 468(23)[504]

Nesfield, William A., 183, 207

Nesfield, W. Eden, 182-183, 207-208, 213, 259, figs. 18, 24

Neubabelsberg, Einstein Tower, 364; _153_; Urbig house, 365

Neuchâtel, Lunatic Asylum, 53

_Neuere kirchliche Baukunst in England_ (Muthesius), 281

_Neue Sachlichkeit_, 347-349

Neuilly, _see_ Paris (Saint-Ferdinand, Saint-Jean-Baptiste)

Neuschwanstein, Schloss, 154-155

Neutra, Richard J., 381, 462(19)[413]

Neu-Ulm, Suabian War Memorial Church, 345

New Bedford (Mass.), Rotch house, 104

Newburgh (N.Y.), Reeve house, 457(15)[340]

New Canaan (Conn.), Philip Johnson’s house, 424; _190_

Newcastle-on-Tyne, Grey Street, 70

New Delhi, 407; _181_

New Earswick (Yorks.), model village, 405

New Haven (Conn.), Connecticut State Capitol (former), 84; Stiles and Morse Colleges, 434; _185_; Yale University, Battell Chapel, 452(11)[243]; (Divinity School), 192; (Durfee Hall) 452(11)[243]; (Dwight Chapel), 452(11)[243]; (Farnam Hall), 193; _96_; (Harkness Quadrangle), 401

New Kensington (Penna.), housing development, 388

New London (Conn.), Custom House, 80

Newman, Robert, 414

New Orleans, St Charles Hotel, 87

Newport (R.I.), Andrews house, 222, 264; Atlantic House, 88; Bell house, 227, 267, fig. 27; _126_; Elmhyrst, 82; _42_; Griswold house, 263; Kingscote, 103, 105, 267, 268; Library, Free, 103, 105; Ocean House (first), 88; (second), 105; Parish house, 105; Sherman house, 223, 265, 267; Taylor house, 229, 269; Willoughby house, 104

Newton, Dudley, 263, 265; _124_

Newton, Ernest, 217, 407

Newtown (Tasmania) Congregational Church, 105

‘New Towns’, 413

New York, American Radiator Building, 361; American Surety Building, 245; Astor House, 88; Astor Library, 89; Barclay-Vesey (N.Y. Telephone) Building, 400, 401; Bogardus factory, 124, 235; 472-82 Broadway, 456(14)[306]; Charity Hospital, Blackwell’s Island, 167; Colonnade Row, 88; _42_; Columbia University, 144; Condict Building, 248; Corn Exchange Bank, 103; Crystal Palace, 126; Daily News Building, 401; De Vinne Press, 242; Empire State Building, 381, 401; Equitable Building, 239; Fifth Avenue Hotel, 239; Fifth Avenue, terrace by Lienau, 169; (No. 998), 399; Goelet Building, 228, 242; Grace Church, 167; Grand Central Station, 400; _177_; Guggenheim Museum, 332, 433; _188_; Harper’s Building, 124; Haughwout store, 239; Havemeyer Building, 245; I.R.T. Power Station, 399; Knickerbocker Trust, 399; Laing Stores, 124, 235; _67_; Lenox Library, 192; Lever House, 403, 415, 433; _189_; Madison Avenue Presbyterian Church, 399; Merchants’ Exchange, 88; Metropolitan Tower, 250; Milhau store, 183 Broadway, 124; Municipal Building, 399; National Academy, 191; Pennsylvania Station, 399; Prison, 77; Pulitzer Building, _see_ World Building; Rockefeller Center, 401; St James Building, 245; St Patrick’s Cathedral, 167, 191; St Vincent Ferrer, 400; Seagram Building, 389, 433; _192_; Shelton Hotel, 399-400; Shiff house, 133, 166; Singer Building, 250;

Stewart (Wanamaker) store, 124; Stuyvesant flats, 170; Tiffany Building, 399; Tiffany house, 227; Tribune Building, 169, 239, 240; Trinity Church, 103; _53_; Tower Building, 244; United Nations Secretariat, 415; University Club, 399; _179_; Vanderbilt house, 455(13)[287]; Villard houses, 227, 269; _109_; Wanamaker store, _see_ Stewart store; Washington Square, 88; Western Union Building, 169, 239, 240; _115_; Woolworth Building, 250, 399-400; _178_;

World (Pulitzer) Building, 244

Niagara Falls (N.Y.), suspension bridge, 119; _60_

Niccolini, Antonio, 54; _23_

Nice, Observatory, 138; Sainte-Jeanne-d’Arc, 463(20)[427]

Nicholas I, 15

Niemeyer, Oscar, 345, 385, 415, 422, 424-425; _172_, _190_

Niermans, 294

Nîmes (Gard), Maison Carrée, 5; Saint-Paul, 109

Nizzoli, M., 417

Nobile, Peter von, 39, 56

Noguchi, Isamu, 416

Noisiel (S.-et-M.), Menier factory, 283

Noordwijkerhout, De Vonk, 366

Northampton (Mass.), Bowers House, 81-82

Northampton (Northants.) New Ways, 346; Town Hall, 185

North Easton (Mass.), Ames Gate Lodge, 224

Norwalk (Ohio), Wooster-Boalt house, 89

Notman, John, 89, 236; _46_

Nottingham, St Barnabas’, 99

Novara, San Gaudenzio, 449(8)[200]

Nüll, Eduard van der, _see_ Van der Nüll, Eduard

Nyrop, Martin, 156, 395; _173_

O

Oak Alley (Louisiana), 82

Oak Park (Ill.) Cheney house, 322; F. Ll. Wright’s own house, 428 Forest Avenue, 271; Gale house, 323; Heurtley house, 322; Unity Church, 321, 324; _143_

Odense, Raadhus, 41

O’Donnell, James, 106

Offenburg, Burda-Moden Building, 417

O’Gorman, Juan, 414

Ohlmüller, J. D., 111-112

Olbrich, J. M., 297, 299, 337-338, 342

Oldenburg, Exhibition (1904), 338

Olmsted, F. L., 224, 230-231, fig. 20

Omaha (Nebraska), New York Life Insurance Co., 244

Oporto, Maria Pia Bridge, 282

Oppenhausen, Goedecke house, 339

Ordish, R. M., 188

Orléans, Cathedral, 107; Protestant Temple, 46

Orly (Seine), aircraft hanger, 312

Osborne House (I.o.W.), 75, 122

O’Shea brothers, 176

Oslo, American Embassy, 383; University, 41

Östberg, Ragnar, 359-360, 395, 396-397; _174_

Ostrowo, Hunting Lodge, 33

Othmarschen, low-cost housing, 343

Otis, Elisha G., 239

Ottawa, Parliament House, 195; _97_

Otterlo, Kröller-Müller Museum, 337

Oud, J. J. P., 364, 366-736, 377-378, 390-391; _163-164_

Outshoorn, Cornelius, 126, 157-158

Overstrand Hall (Norfolk), 279

Owatonna (Minn.), National Farmers’ Bank, 249

Owen, Robert Dale, 105

Owings, Nathaniel, 468(23)[499]

Oxford, Balliol College, 186; Exeter College chapel, 181; Keble College, 186-187; Martyrs’ Memorial, 100; Meadow Buildings, 181; Midland Station, 126; St Philip and St James, 180; Union Debating Hall, 176; University Museum, 176; _86_

Ozenfant, Amédée, 367

P

Paddington, _see_ London

Padua, Caffè Pedrocchi, 56; _23_; Il Pedrocchino, 56

Paestum, xxiii

Pagot, F.-N., 46

Paimio, sanatorium, 381

Paine, Thomas, 118

Palladio, Andrea, 6

Palma de Mallorca, Cathedral, 202

Palmer, Potter, 171

Palo Alto (Cal.), Hanna house, 329

Pampulha, São Francisco, 345, 422; _190_

_Pan_, 292

Panama, El Panamá Hotel, 383

Pani, Mario, 421; _see also_ Pani & del Moral

Pani & del Moral, 423

Pankok, Bernard, 337

Papworth, J. B., _122_

Paris, Arc du Carrousel, 10; (de Triomphe de l’Étoile), 10, 49; _7_; 67 Avenue Malakoff, 294; (Niel, No. 83), 310; (Nungesser et Coli, No. 24), 384; (de l’Opéra), 136, 137; (de Wagram, No. 119), 294; _134_; Barracks, Rue Mouffetard, 44; _barrières_, xxiv-xxv; Barrière de Saint-Martin, xxv; _1_; Bastille Column, 120; Bazar de l’Industrie, 120; de Beistegui flat, 384; Bibliothèque Nationale, 128, 141; _69_; (Sainte-Geneviève), 51, 123, fig. 14; _21_; Bon Marché, Rue de Sèvres, 251, 282; Bourse, 11; _8_; Brasserie Universelle, 294; Castel Béranger, 293;

‘Castel’, Passy, 110; Cercle de la Librairie, 138; Champs Élysées, 45; Chapelle Expiatoire, 43; _18_;

Chapelle Saint-Ferdinand, Neuilly, 107; Châtelet, theatres, 138; Cirque des Champs Élysées (d’Été), 45; (d’Hiver), 45; Cité Seurat, 372; Cité Universitaire, Swiss Hostel, 384; _165_; Collège de France, 46-47; (Sainte-Barbe), 51; Colonne de la Grande Armée, 9-10; (de Juillet), 49; Concert Hall, Rue Cardinet, 315; Crédit National Hôtelier, 314; Custom House, 46; École des Beaux-Arts, 52, 140; _72_; (de Médecine), 8; (Normale Supérieure), 47, 133; (Polytechnique), 19, 20, 46; Eiffel Tower, 282-283; _130_; Esders factory, 312; Exhibition (1855), 128; (1867), Galerie des Machines, 282; (1889), Eiffel Tower, 282-283; _130_, (Palais des Machines), 283; (1900), 293-294, 295-296, 360; des Arts Décoratifs (1925), Austrian pavilion, 351, (Pavillon de l’Esprit Nouveau), 372; Fontaine Molière, 448(8)[179]; Fould, Hôtel, 140; Garage Ponthieu, 310; _139_; Galeries du Commerce et de l’Industrie, 48, 120; _62_; Galerie d’Orléans, 120; Garde Meuble, 315;

Gare de l’Est, 50, 123; _22_; (de Lyon), 135-136; (du Métropolitain), 294; _137_; (Montparnasse), 50; (du Nord), 45, 135; (d’Orsay), 399; _183_; Grand Bazar de la Rue de Rennes, 295; Grand Palais, 293-294; Halle au Blé, roof, 119; Hôtel de Ville, 48; _22_; Hôtel-Dieu, 49; Humbert de Romans building, 294; Invalides, Napoleon’s tomb, 49; Jardin d’Hiver, 121, 137; Jeanneret house, 370; La Roche house, 370; Louvre, Grand Galerie, 116; (New Louvre), 133-135; _68_; Lycées Buffon, Molière, 142; Luxembourg Palace, Peers’ Chamber, 51; (Orangerie: Museum), 51; Madeleine, 10-11, 49; Mairie du Louvre, 136-137; ‘Maison de François I’, 47, 133; Maison de l’Art Nouveau, 293; _maisons de rapport_, 52; Marché des Carmes, 12; (St Germain), 12; (de la Madeleine), 119; (St Martin), 12; Markets, Central, 128; Maxim’s, 294; Métro entrances, _see_ Gare du Métropolitain;

Ministry of Finance, 12; (of Foreign Affairs), 12; (of Marine), 315; _140_; Musée des Travaux-Publics, 316;

Notre-Dame, 108, 109, 197; (chapter house), 109; Rue d’Auteuil, 142-143; (de-Bonne-Nouvelle), 44; (de-la-Croix, Menilmontant), 142; (de Lorette), 44; _18_; Opéra, 137-138, fig. 15; _70-71_; Orloffhouse, 372;

Ozenfant house, 370; Palais de Bois, 314; Palais Bourbon, Salle des Cinq Cents, 8, 51; Palais de Justice, 52, 136; Panorama Français, 138;

Panthéon (Sainte-Geneviève), xxii, xxiii; 2; Père Lachaise, Duc de Morny’s tomb, 452(11)[254]; Pereire, Hôtel, 140; Petite Roquette prison, 49; Place de la Bourse, 52; _8_; (Charles X), 45; (de la Concorde), 11, 45; (de l’Étoile), 45, 135; _7_; (de l’Opéra), 137; _70_; (de la Porte de Passy, No. 9), 315; _139_; (des Pyramides), 8; (Saint-Georges), 48; Pont du Carrousel, 119; Post Office, General, _see_ Ministry of Finance; Pourtalès, Hôtel de, 52; Printemps store, 251, 282; Prison de la Nouvelle Force, 50; Quai d’Orsay, Foreign Ministry, 52; Rotonde des Panoramas, 137, 442(3)[64]; Rue des Amiraux, flats, 318; (de Castiglione), 8-9; (des Colonnes), 8; (de Condorcet, flats), 197; (de Douai, flats), 136; 197; _101_; (Franklin, No. 25 bis), 294, 310, fig. 36; (La Fontaine, Nos 17-21), 295; (de Liège, flats), 109; _56_; (Mallet-Stevens), 372; (de Milan), _75_; (des Pyramides), 8;

(Raynouard, Nos 51-55a), 316; (de Rivoli), 8, 136; _6_; (de Sévigné, school), 309; (Vaneau, No 14), 47-48, 133; (Vavin), 318;

Sacré-Cœur, 143; Saint-Ambroise, 142; Saint-Augustin, 141; Sainte-Clotilde, 108, 122; _55_; Saint-Denis-du-Saint-Sacrament, 44; Saint-Eugène, 128; Saint-François-Xavier, 141; Sainte-Geneviève, _see_ Panthéon;

Saint-Jacques-Saint-Christophe, La Villette, 46; Saint-Jean-de-Belleville, 141; Saint-Jean-de-Montmartre, 284, 309; Saint-Jean-Baptiste, Neuilly, 44; Sainte-Marie-des-Batignolles, 44; Saint-Phillippe-du-Roule, 10; Saint-Pierre-du-Gros-Caillou, 44; Saint-Pierre-de-Montrouge, 142; _72_; Saint-Vincent-de-Paul, 45; _19_; Salm, Hôtel de, 15; Salvation Army building, 384; Samaritaine store, 295; _133_; Santé Prison, 142; Séminaire Saint-Sulpice, 43; Société Marseillaise de Crédit, Rue Auber, 314; Sorbonne, 373; Synagogue, Rue Notre-Dame-de-Nazareth, 45; Théâtre des Champs Élysées, 310-312; (Français), 116; (de l’Odéon), 11; Tribunal de Commerce, 140; Trinité, La, 142; Trocadéro, Palais du, 458(16)[360]; Troyon house, 459(16)[373]; Tzara house, 355; Unesco Building, 388; Vaudeville theatre, 138

Parker, Charles, 76

Parker, Richard Barry, 405

Parker & Unwin, 405

Parnell, C. Octavius, 75

Parris, Alexander, 84-85, 234; _43_, _112_

Parsonages, 257; Tudor, 255-256, fig. 21

Partnerships, 402

Pasadena (Cal.) Blacker house, 333; Gamble house, 333; _147_; Millard house, 326-327, fig. 40; _144_; Pitcairn house, 333

Pascal, J.-L., 141, 469(24)[514]

Pascual y Coloner, Narciso, 57

Passy, _see_ Paris (‘Castel’)

Patte, Pierre, 440(int.)[14]

Paul, Bruno, 365

Paxton, Sir Joseph, 73, 95, 120-121, 124-126; _64_

Payerbach, Kuhner house, 355

Peabody & Stearns, 226-227, 444(5)[104]

Peacock, Joseph, 178

Pearson, F. L., 189

Pearson, J. L., 177, 180, 181, 189, 190; _93_

Peckforton Castle (Salop), 95

Pedralbes, _see_ Barcelona (Güell, Finca)

Pedregulho, _see_ Rio de Janeiro

Pei, I. M., 416

Pellechet, A.-J., 45, 137, 448(8)[187]

Pellechet, J.-A.-F.-A., 162; _76_

Penarth (Glam.), St Augustine’s, 177

Penchaud, M.-R., 46, 49, 144

Pennethorne, Sir James, 66, 75, 126

Penrhyn Castle (Carnarvonsh.), 444(6)[108]

Penshurst Place (Kent), 454(12)[262]

Penzing, hospital, 350; 28 Hüttelbergstrasse, 350; Steinhof Asylum, 350

Percier, Charles, 8-9, 10, 13, 447(7)[152]; _6_

Perego, Giovanni, 56

Perez Palacios, Augusto, 419

Périgueux (Dordogne), Saint-Front, 143

Perkins, Wheeler & Will, 361

Perret, Auguste, xxviii, 294, 308ff., 372, figs. 36-37; _134_, _139-141_

Perret, Gustave, 308

Perry & Reed, 162

Perrycroft (Worcs.), 276

Persius, Ludwig, 33, 35; _15_

Pertsch, Matthäus, 57

Pessac (Gironde), housing estate, 372

Petersburg, Academy of Mines, 15; Admiralty, 15; Alexander Column, 58; _27_; Alexandra Theatre, 57; Bourse, 14; _8_; Cathedral of the Redeemer, 58; German Embassy, 341; _27_; General Staff Arches, 57; _27_; Hermitage Museum, 24; Kazan Cathedral, 15; Marble Palace, 116; St Isaac’s Cathedral, 57-8; _27_; Senate and Synod, 57; Triumphal Gate, 58

Petersen, Carl, 396, 397

Petersen, Vilhelm, 156, fig. 16

Peto, Harold A., 215

Petrópolis, Summer Palace, 90

Pevsner, Antoine, 418

Peyre, A.-M., 12

Peyre, M.-J., 12

Pfau, Bernhard, 417

Philadelphia, Atheneum, 89; _46_; Bank of Pennsylvania, 6; (of the United States), 83-84; Broad Street Station, 195; Chestnut Street, 236, 237; City Hall, 168; Eastern State Penitentiary, 50, 77, fig. 11; Girard College, 82-83; Girard Trust, 399; Jackson Building, 236; Jayne Building, 237; Leland Building, 237; Masonic Hall, 7, 102; Merchants’ Exchange, 84; _40_; Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, 194; Pennsylvania Museum of Art, 7; Philadelphia Savings Fund Society Building, 381, 415; _169_; Provident Institution, 194-195; _95_; St Stephen’s, 102; Sansom Street Baptist Church, 7; Waterworks, 7

Philippon, P.-F.-N., 53

Phillips, Henry, 121

Phoenix (Ariz.), Pauson house, 329; Taliesin West, 329; David Wright house, 330

Piacentini, Marcello, 393, 409

Piacentini, Pio, 146

Pichl, Luigi, 39

Piel, L.-A., 108

Picturesque mode, xxvii, 2, 3, 93ff.

Piermarini, Giuseppe, 56

Pierrefonds, Château de, (Oise), 197

Pierrepoint (Surrey), 210

Pierron, 283

Pilar, S.I.T. Spinning Shed, 420

Pilkington, Frederick T., 201

_Pilotis_, 247, 369

Pimlico, _see_ London (Churchill Gardens)

Pinch, John, 96

Pineau, Nicholas, 14

Piranesi, Francesco, xxiii

Piranesi, G. B., xxi, xxii, xxiii

Pitt, William, 171

Pittsburgh (Penna.), Alcoa Building, 415-416; Allegheny County Buildings, 225; _108_; cable bridge, 119; Golden Triangle, 401, 414; Jail, 225; Park Building, 245

Pittsfield (Mass.), Post Office, 194

Pius VII, 13

Pizzala, Andrea, 120

‘Plan-factories’, 403

Plano (Ill.), Farnsworth house, 389, fig. 53

Platt, Charles A., 399

Playfair, W. H., 71; _34_

Pleasantville (N.Y.), Friedman house, 330; _145_

Plumet, Charles, 294

Poelaert, Joseph, 53, 165; _81_

Poelzig, Hans, 344

Poggi, Giuseppe, 145

‘Point-blocks’, 420

Poissy (S.-et-O.), Savoye house, 370-371, fig. 47; _159_

Poletti, Luigi, 54

Polk, Willis, 465(22)[451]

Pollák, Michael, 40

Pollet (Seine-Inf.), church, 46

Pollini, Gino, 382; _see also_ Figini & Pollini

Polonceau, A.-R., 119

Polychromy, 45, 174

Pompeii, xxii

Pompon, xxvi, 14

Pontivy (Ctes-du-Nord), Préfecture, 12; Palace of Justice, 12

Ponente da Silva, Domingos, 57

Pope, John Russell, 400

Pope, R. S., 87

Popp, Alexander, 346

Porden, William, 3, 117

Port Chester (N.Y.), Synagogue, 423

Portinari, Cándido, 422

Portland (Ore.), Equitable Building, 416; houses by Yeon, 425

Possagno, Tempio Canoviano, 55

Post, George B., 169, 239, 244, 245; _115_

Potain, M.-M., 45

Potsdam, Charlottenhof, 33; Court Gardener’s house, 34; _14_; Friedenskirche, 35; _15_; Nikolaikirche, 35; Orangerieschloss, 35; Pheasantry, 35; Schloss Glienecke, 33; Theatre, 16; Zivilcasino, 30

Potter, Edward T., 191, 194

Potter, William A., 193, 194

Pottsville (Penna.), Miners’ Bank, 447(7)[171]

Powell, A. J. Philip, 421

Powell & Moya, 421

Poyet, Bernard, xxvi, 8, 11

Pozzuoli, Olivetti factory, 420

‘Prairie houses’, 273, 274, 321

_Précis des leçons_ (Durand), 19, 20-22, figs. 2-3

Preen Manor (Salop), 210

Prefabrication, 122

Pre-Raphaelites, 286

Price, Bruce, 225, 228, 244-245, 269-270, fig. 28; _125_

Price, Uvedale, 3-4

Prichard, John, 177

_Prima parte di architettura_ (Piranesi), xxii

Primitivism in architecture, 460(17)[155]

Princeton (N.J.), Graduate College, 401; _177_

Prinsep, Val, 211

Pritchard, Thomas Farnolls, 116

Pritchett, Charles, 68

Pritchett, James P., 68

Prix de Rome projects, 20

Promis, Carlo, 55; _26_

Providence (R.I.), Providence Arcade, 86; Tulley-Bowen house, 89; Union Station, 89; _44_; Washington Buildings, 86; _39_; Westminster Presbyterian Church, 86

Prussian National Theatre, project by Gilly, 16; _9_

Pueblo (Colorado), Opera House Building, 245

Pugin, A. C., 3, 95

Pugin, A. W. N., 95, 97, 98ff., 257; _52_

Pugin, E. W., 99, 196

Purcell, William G., 249

Purcell & Elmslie, 249, 332

‘Purisme’, 367

Purkersdorf, convalescent home, 350

Putney, _see_ London (Ackroydon estate)

Puvis de Chavannes, 230

Pyrford Common (Surrey), Little Court, 277

Q

Quar Wood (Glos.), 177

Quatremère de Quincy, Antoine, 439(int.)[9]

Queen Anne Revival, 206, 208, 211, 212ff.

Questel, C.-A., 109

Quincy (Mass.), ‘Church of the Presidents’, 85; Crane Library, 223-224; _110_

Quincy granite, 78, 85

Quintana Simonetti, Antonio, 416

R

Racine (Wis.) Hardy house, 322-323; S. C. Johnson Building, 328-329, 331; _146_; Wingspread, 329

Raffaelli, R., 146

Railton, William, 67

Railway stations, 121

Raleigh (N. C.), Asylum, 86-87; North Carolina State Capitol, 84

Ramée, Daniel, xxv

Ramée, J.-J., xxvi, 7

Ramsgate (Kent), St Augustine’s, 99-100; The Grange, 99-100, 257

Rangoon, pharmaceutical plant, 420

Ransome, Ernest L., 312

Rapson, Ralph, 383, 468(23)[500]

Rapson & Van de Gracht, 383

Raschdorf, Julius, 153; _77_

Ray, R. L., 151

Raymond, J.-A., 10

Reading (Berks.), Gaol, 95

Rebelo, J. M. J., 90; _46_

Recife, Santa Isabel Theatre, 90-91

Recueil (Séheult), 109-110

Reed, Charles A., 469(24)[516]

Reed, Joseph, 196

Reed & Stem, 400; _177_

Regensburg, _see_ Walhalla

Reidy, Affonso Eduardo, 421-422

Reijers, Z., 42

Reilly, Sir Charles Herbert, 467(23)[492]

Reinhardt, Heinrich, 342

Renaud, Édouard, 48

Renié, A.-M., 46

Rennes (Ille-et-V.), Cathedral, 440(1)[30]

Rennie, Sir John, 7, 69, 119

Renwick, James, 105, 167-168, 191

Repton, Humphry, 3, 63, 94

Repulles y Vargas, E. M., 166

Revett, Nicholas, xxii, 4, 77

Reynolds-Stephens, Sir William, 293

Rezasco, G. B., 54

Rhind, David, 72, 236

Rhinebeck (N.Y.), Delamater house, 104

Ribbon-windows, 466(22)[466]

Richardson, C. J., 163

Richardson, H. H., 166, 168, 170, 192-193, 196, 221ff., 238-239, 242-243, 264-265, 267, 269, 455(13)[287], 463(21)[436]; _91_; _108_, _110_, _116_, _124_

Richfield Springs (N.Y.), McCormick house, 227, 268

Richmond (Va.), Monumental Church, 80; Virginia State Capitol, 5, 6

Rickman, Thomas, 95, 96, 117-118; _50_

Riedel, Eduard, 111, 154

Riehl, Sankt Engelbert, 345

Riemerschmid, Richard, 337

Rietveld, Gerrit, 364, 366, 367, 377, 465(22)[461]; _164_

Riga, A.E.G. plant, 341

Rinaldi, Antonio, 116

Rio de Janeiro, Custom House, 90; Imperial Academy of Fine Arts, 90; Itamaratí Palace, 90; _46_; Market, 90; Ministry of Education and Public Health, 383, 385; _171_; Pedregulho housing estate, 422; Santos Dumont Airport, 423; University City, 419; _see also_ Gávea

Rivera, Diego, 414

River Forest (Ill.), River Forest Golf Club, 273; _128_; River Forest Tennis Club, 458(15)[347]; Roberts house, 322; Williams house, 458(15)[346]; Winslow house, 271-272; _128_

Riverside (Ill.), Coonley house, 323-324; Coonley playhouse, 325

Robert, Hubert, 110

Roberto brothers, 423

Roberts, Henry, 68, 340

Robertson, John, 95

Robinson, P. F., 104, 457(15)[325]

Robson, E. R., 212

Rocco, Emmanuele, 147

Roche, Martin, 243; _see also_ Holabird & Roche

Roebling, John, 119; _60_

Roebling, Washington A., 119

Roehampton, _see_ London

Rogers, Isaiah, 80, 81, 86, 87-88, 234, 444(5)[93], fig. 13; _41_

Rogers, James Gamble, 393, 401

Rohault de Fleury, Charles, 44, 120, 137, 448(8)[187]

Rome, Academy of St Luke, xxi; All Saints’ English Church, 200; American Academy, 402; Banca d’Italia, Via Nazionale, 146; Caffè Inglese, xxiii; Esedra, 145; _76_; Ministry of Finance, 145; Museo Pio-Clementino, 25; Palazzo delle Belle Arti, 146; (Boncampagni), 146; (di Giustizia), 146; Piazza del Popolo, 13, 53; St Paul’s American Church, 200-201; _100_; San Pantaleone, 13; San Paolo fuori-le-mura, 54; Teatro Argentina, 54; Termini Station, 382, 423; _183_; Vatican, Braccio Nuovo, 53; _24_; Via Nazionale, 145; (Venti Settembre), 145; Victor Emanuel II Monument, 146

Romein T. A. 42

Ronchamp (Hte-Saône), Notre-Dame-du-Haut, xxviii, 386-367; _167_

Rondelet, J.-B., xxiii, 20

Roosenburg, Dirk, 359

Root, J. W., 227; _see also_ Burnham & Root

Rosen, Anton, 395

Rosendal, 42

Rosner, Karl, 40

Ross, William, 444(5)[99]

Rossetti, D. G., 286

Rossi, K. I., 57; _27_

Rotival, Maurice, 413

Rottenburg, church, 28

Rotterdam, Bijenkorf store, 388, 468(23)[508]; Café de Unie, 377; Erasmus Huis, 379, 391; Esveha offices, 391; Kiefhoek housing estate, 378; _164_; Lijnbaan, 469(23)[508]; Oud Mathenesse housing estate, 377; Spangen housing estate, 366-367; Tuschendijken housing estate, 367; van Nelle factory, 378; _163_

Rouen (Seine-Inf.), Cathedral, flèche, 120; Custom House, 46; Notre-Dame-de-Bon-Secours, 108; Saint-Ouen, 108

Rousseau, Pierre, 15

Roussel, K.-X., 312

Roux-Spitz, Michel, 461(18)[407]

Rubelli, Mario, 145

Rubio, Manuel A., 416

Ruckmans (Surrey), 404

Rude, François, 10

Rudolph, Paul, 425

Rugby (War.), Rugby School, 187

_Ruines des plus beaux monuments de la Grèce_ (Leroy), xxii

_Ruins of Palmyra_ (Wood), xxii

_Rundbogenstil_, 27

Ruskin, John, 106-107, 174, 175, 176, 286

S

Saarinen, Eero, 361, 415, 418, 422-423, 433, 434, 471(25)[545], fig. 55; _157_, _168_, _185_, _190_

Saarinen, Eliel, 360-361, 418; _157_

Saavedra, Gustavo, 414

Sacconi, Giuseppe, 146

Sada, Carlo, 56

Saelzer, A., 89

Saffron Walden (Essex), Barclays Bank, 213

_Saggio sopra l’architettura_ (Algarotti), xxii

Saint-Cloud (S.-et-O.), 13

St-Cyr, houses by Garnier, 318

St-Denis (Seine), Abbaye, 197; 72 Rue Charles Michel, 309; Saint-Denys-de-l’Estrée, 141, 197; _98_

Saintenoy, Paul, 291

Saint-Fart, Eustache, 116

St Gaudens, Augustus, 230

Saint-Germain-en-Laye (S.-et-O.), church, 45

St John’s (Newfoundland), cathedral, 106

St Louis (Miss.), Airport, 423; Jewish community centre, 387; St Louis Trust and Savings Bank, 247; Union Methodist Church, 89; Wainwright Building, 246; _118_

St-Malo (Ille-et-V.), Municipal Casino, 309

St-Maurice (Seine), Charenton Lunatic Asylum, 50

St Paul (Minn.), Jewish community centre, 387

St Paulzo (Nièvre), Château de St Martin, 48

St Petersburg, _see_ Petersburg

St-Rambert (Drôme), houses by Gamier, 318

Sakrow, Heilandskirche, 35

Salem (Mass.), First Unitarian (North) Church, 102; _55_; St Peter’s, 102

Salford (Lancs.), Salford Twist Company’s Mill, 117; St Philip’s, 61

Salinas Moro, Raúl, 419

Salt, Sir Titus, 126

Salt Lake City (Utah), Z.C.M.I. store, 124, 251

Saltaire (Yorks.), 126-127

Salvin, Anthony, 95

Santa Coloma de Cervelló, church by Gaudí, 460(17)[392]

Sundahl, C., 42

San Diego (Cal.), Exhibition (1915), 333; First Church of Christ Scientist, 334

Sandrié, P.-J., 44-45

Sandwich (Kent), Salutation, 405

San Francisco, Exhibition (1915), 333; Hallidie Building, 465(22)[451]; Maimonides Hospital, 387; Mint, 81; Morris shop, 330-331; Municipal Buildings, 169

Sang, 123

San Juan (Porto Rico), Airport, 423

Sankt Johann, Obenauer house, 338

Sanquirico, Alessandro, 56

Santamaria, G., 301

Sant’ Elia, Antonio, 382, 468(23)[495]

Santiago (Chile), 91

São Paulo, Airport, 423; Biennal (1957), 417; Bratke house, 425, fig. 56; Edificio C.B.I., 416

Sargent, John Singer, 230

Saulnier, Jules, 283

Sauvage, Henri, 318

Savage, James, 96

Savannah (Georgia), Hermitage, 82

Säynatsälo, Municipal Buildings, _173_

Scarborough (Yorks.), Grand Hotel, 162; _79_; St Martin’s-on-the-Cliff, 184

Scarisbrick Hall (Lancs.), 99, 257

Scharoun, Hans, 429

Schenectady, Union College, 7, 191

Scheveningen, Leuring house, 337; Oranje Hotel, 158

Schimkowitz, Othmar, 349, 350

Schinkel, K. F. von, 17, 28ff, 41, 110, figs. 5-7; _12-14_

Schmidt, Friedrich von, 111, 150, 198; _99_

Schmidt, Richard E., 462(19)[415]

Schmieden, Heinrich, 153

Schmitz, Bruno, 463(21)[436]

Schneck, Adolf, 467(23)[488]

Schocken Department Stores, 379

Scholer, F. E., 342

Schouko, V. A., 467(22)[479]

Schulze, Paul, 89

Schumacher, Fritz, 341-342

Schwanthaler, 24

Schwarz, Rudolf, 345, 429, 434

Schwechten, Franz, 154

Schwerin, Schloss, 111; _57_

Scott, Edmund, 185; _93_

Scott, Sir George Gilbert, 95, 100, 106, 175, 181-182, 302; _52_, _90_

Scott, H. G. D., 164

Scott, M. H. B., _see_ Baillie Scott

Scott, Sir Walter, 94

Scottish Baronial mode, 94

Scully, Vincent, 263

Sears, 194

Sedding, J. D., 406

Seddon, J. P., 187; _91_

Sedgley (Penna.), 6, 102, 256

Sédille, Paul, 251, 281, 282

Séguin, Marc, 119

Séheult, F.-L., 109-110

Seitz, Franz von, 154

Selmersheim, Tony, 294

Selva, Giannantonio, 14, 55, 442(3)[69]

Semper, Gottfried, 28, 37, 111, 150, 153, 165, fig. 8; _73_

Semper, Manfred, 153

Sérinet, 50

Seurat, Georges, 286

_Seven Lamps of Architecture_ (Ruskin), 107, 174

Sezincote (Glos.), 3, 254

Shaw, John, 208

Shaw, R. Norman, 183, 198, 206ff., 259, 263, figs. 19, 24; _94_, _102-107_, _123_

Shepley, Rutan & Coolidge, 223, 225, 232; _see also_ Coolidge, Shepley, Bulfinch & Abbott

‘Shingle Style’, 265ff.

Shreve, Lamb & Harmon, 381

Shrewsbury (Salop), Benyons, Marshall & Bage Mill, 117, 233

Shrubland (Norfolk), 75

Shryock, Gideon, 84

Siccardsburg, August Siccard von, 40

Sidmouth (Devon), Knowles, Royal Glen, Woodlands Hotels, 256

Siemensstadt housing estate, _see_ Berlin

Silsbee, J. Lyman, 269, 270

Silveyra, Jacob, 44-45

Silverend (Essex), Le Chateau, 470(24)[533]

Simone, Antonio de, 13; _25_

Simonetti, Michelangelo, 25

Skelton (Yorks.), church, 189

Skidmore, Louis, 434, 468(23)[499]

Skidmore, Owings & Merrill, 383, 403, 415, 416; _189_

Skyscrapers, 239ff., 471(25)[541]

Slater, J. Alan, 467(23)[492]

Sloan, Samuel, 105, 254, 446(6)[136]

Smeaton Manor (Yorks.), 218; _102_

Smirke, Sir Robert, 3, 4, 59, 61, 67, 442(3)[67]; _33_

Smirke, Sydney, 67, 75, 127-128

Smith, Alfred, 75

Smith, George, 68

Smith, John, 94

Smith, J. K., 469(24)[513]

Smith, W. J., 74

Smith, William, 94

Soane, Sir John, 1-2, 44, 59-60, 62, 117; _3-4_, _6_, _28_

Solis, G. M., 14

Sommaruga, Giuseppe, 301

Sonne, Jørgen, 40

Sordo Madaleno, Juan, 416, 425

Sørenson, C. T., 415

Soufflot, François, xxiii

Soufflot, J.-G., xxii, xxiii, 116; _2_

Spalatro, 439(int.)[7]

Speeth, Peter, 18; _17_

Spiers, R. Phéné, 215

Sprenger, Paul, 39

Springfield (Mass.), Hampden County Courthouse, 222; house by Eidlitz, 90; North Congregational Church, 222; Stebbins house, 90; _43_; Unity Church, 193; Western Railway Office, 193

Spring Green (Wis.), Hillside Home School, 270, 324; Taliesin, 324-325, 327

Staal, J. F., 359, 468(23)[508]

Stam, Mart, 378

Stanhope, Spencer, 177, 259

Starkey & Cuffley, 235

Stasov, V. P., 58

Steel, use of, 115

Stegmann, Povl, 414

Steindl, Imre, 198

Steiner, Rudolf, 364

Stem, Allen H., 469(24)[516]

Stent, F. W., 195

Stent & Laver, 195

Stephenson, George, 119

Stephenson, Robert, 68, 69, 95, 119, 121-122, 123; _61_, _63_

Stern, Raffaelle, 53; _24_

Stevenson, J. J., 212, 215

‘Stick Style’, 263-264

_Stijl_, _see_ _De Stijl_

_Stile Liberty_, 284

Stirling & Gowan, 429

Stjarnsund, house by Sundahl, 16

Stockholm, American Embassy, 383; Bern’s Restaurant, 157; Central Library, 381, 398; _176_; Concert Hall, 398; Engelbrekt Church, 360, 395; Exhibition (1930), 381; Högalid Church, 396; Jernkontovets Building, 157; National Bank, 157; National Museum, 42; Northern Museum, 157; Parliament House, 157; Skandia Cinema, 398; Skandias Building, 42; Skeppsholm Church, 42; Sodra Theatre, 42; Town Hall, 395, 396-397; _174_; University of Architecture and Engineering, 397

Stoke Newington, _see_ London (St Faith’s, St Matthias’s)

Stoke-on-Trent (Staffs.), Trentham Park, 75

Stokes, Leonard A. S., 407

Stone, Edward D., 383, 430

Stonehouse (Devon), Royal Navy Victualling Yard, 69

_Stones of Venice_ (Ruskin), 174

Stotz, J.-G., 45

Strack, Heinrich, 36, 112

Streatham, _see_ London (Christ Church)

Street, A. E., 451(10)[227]

Street, G. E., 100, 174, 175, 178, 180, 186, 200-201; _94_, _100_

Strickland, William, 7, 82, 83-84, 102; _40_

Strutt, William, 117

Stuart, James, xxii, 4, 77

Studer, Friedrich, 28, 52

_Studio_, 282, 285, 292

Studio-houses, 263

Studley Royal (Yorks.), church, 189

Stulberger, F. P., 154

Stüler, F. A., 32, 37, 42, 111, 112, 151, 152; _57_

Sturbridge (Mass.), Levi Lincoln house, 82

Sturgis, John H., 229

Sturgis, Julian, 276

Sturgis, Russell, 193; _96_

Stürzenacker, August, 342

Stuttgart, Art Gallery, 342; Baugewerkschule, 152-153; Hospital, 467(23)[488]; Königsbau, 38; Railway Station, 342; _152_; Werkbund Exhibition, Weissenhof (1927), (Behrens), 346; _162_; (Gropius), 374; (Le Corbusier), 370; (Mies), 375; (Oud), 378; Zeppelinbau, 347

_Style Louis XVI_, xxiii-xxiv

Sullingstead (Surrey), 404

Sullivan, Louis H., 195, 196-197, 241-2, 245, 246, 248-249; _117-121_

Sumner, Heywood, 285, 459(16)[376]

Sun-breaks, 416

Sundahl, C. F., 16

Sweet Briar College (Va.), 401

Swiss Chalet mode, 104, 113

Sunderland (Durham), bridge, 118

Süssenguth, Georg, 342

Suys, L.-P., 164

Suys, T. F., 42

Swampscott (Mass.), Shingleside, 228, 269

Sydney, Campbell house, 91; Government House stables, 105

Sykes, Godfrey, 164

Sykes, Henry A., 90; _43_

Symbolism, xxvi

T

TAC, 388, 402, 470(24)[524]; _168_

Tacoma (Wash.), railway station, 469(24)[516]

Tait, Thomas S., 470(24)[526], [533]

Taliesin, _see_ Phoenix, Spring Green

Talman, William, 89

Tange, Kenzo, 429; _187_

Tarrytown (N.Y.), Ericstan, 104

Taylor, Sir Robert, 1

Tecton, 382, 470(24)[524]; _172_

Tefft, Thomas A., 89; _44_

Telford, Thomas, 7, 95, 118; _58-59_

Tengbom, Ivar, 396, 398

Terragni, Giuseppe, 382; _172_

_Terza Roma_, 409

Tessenow, Heinrich, 339

Teulon, S. S., 175, 177, 179, 180, 189

Tewkesbury (Glos.), bridge, 118

Thackeray, William M., 208

Theale (Berks.), Holy Trinity, 96

The Hague, Academy of Fine Arts, 42; American Embassy, 383, 388; Bijenkorf store, 358; Kröller house, 365-366; Nederlandsche Bank, 42; Netherlands Insurance Company Building, 359; Passage, 450(8)[204]; Shell Building, 390; Vrijzinnige Christelijk Lyceum, 391

Thicknesse, P. C., 219

Thiersch, Friedrich von, 338, 342-343

Thomas, A.-F.-T., 294

Thomon, Thomas de, 14; _8_

Thompson, Francis, 69, 95, 122, 123; _61_, _63_

Thomson, Alexander, 61-62, 72; _29_, _35_

Thomson, Edward, 397; _176_

Thomson, James, 66; _32_

Thomson, Samuel, 444(5)[99]

Thornton, William, 6; _82_

Thorwaldsen, Bertil, 15, 23, 40

Tiffany, Louis C., 287

Tigbourne Court (Surrey), 279

Tite, Sir William, 69

Tobey, S. Edwin, 229

Tokyo, Imperial Hotel, 326, 435; Metropolitan Festival Hall, _187_; Museum of Modern Art, 435

Tombstone (Ariz.), Crystal Palace Saloon, 92

Tomes, Sir John, 262

Ton, K. A., 58

Toorak, St John Evangelist’s, 196

Toorop, Jan, 286, 292

Toronto (Ont.), City Hall, 225; Trinity College, old building, 106; University College, 195-196

Torquay (Devon), St John’s, 180

Torro, Osvaldo Luis, 471(25)[543]

Torro, Ferrer & Torregrossa, 423

Torroja, Eduardo, 433, 434, 461(18)[400]

Tortworth Court (Glos.), 175

Totsuka Country Club, _187_

Tournon, bridge, 119

Tours, Hôtel de Ville, 399; Palais de Justice, 50; Railway Station, 399; Saint-Martin, 399

Town, Ithiel, 81; _see also_ Town & Davis

Town & Davis, 84, 88; _39_

Townsend, C. Harrison, 292-293; _134_

_Tracés régulateurs_, 371

‘Traditional’ architecture, 392ff.

Trevista, fig. 33

Trieste, Palazzo Carciotti, 57; Sant’ Antonio di Padova, 56; Teatro Verdi, 57

Trollope, 450(9)[209]

Troy (N.Y.), railway station, 469(24)[516]

Troyes system, 367

Trumbauer, Horace, 7, 401

Truro (Cornwall), cathedral, 189

Tully, Kivas, 106

Tulsa (Okla.), Jones house, 327

Tunbridge Wells (Kent), Calverley Estate, 72

Turin, Corso Vittorio Emmanuele II, 145; Exhibition (1902), 300, 338; Gran Madre di Dio, 55; _26_; Mole Antonelliana, 449(8)[200]; Piazza Carlo Felice, 55; (dello Statuto), 145; (Vittorio Veneto), 55; _26_; Porta Nuova Railway Station, 55, 145; Sacramentine, 56; San Massimo, 55-56; Via Roma, 409

Turku, Turun Sanomat Building, 381

Turner, Richard, 121, 125; _67_

Tuxedo Park (N.Y.), Lorillard and other houses, 228, 269-270, fig. 28; _125_

Tvede, Gotfred, 397

Tyringham (Bucks.), 2; _6_

U

Uccle, Van de Velde’s house, 291, 337

Uchard, T.-F.-J., 141

Udine Exhibition (1903), 301

Ulm, Garrison Church, 342

Unwin, Sir Raymond, 405

Upjohn, Richard, 103-104; _53_

Upjohn, Richard M., 195

Uppsala, Botanical Institute, 16; Haga Slott, 16

Urban, Josef, 460(17)[387]

_Urbanisme_ (Le Corbusier), 370

‘Usonian’, 320

Utica (N.Y.), Asylum, 86; _47_; City Hall, 103; _53_; Munn house, 104

Utrecht, Schroeder house, 377; _164_

V

Valadier, Giuseppe, 13, 53

Vållingby, Garden City, 413, 434

Van Brunt, Henry, 192; _see also_ Ware & Van Brunt

Van Brunt & Howe, 227

Van de Velde, Henri, 291, 293, 296, 311, 337

Van der Nüll, Eduard, 40

Van der Nüll and Siccardsburg, 40, 149

Van der Rohe, _see_ Mies van der Rohe

Van Eyck, Aldo, 429

Van Gogh, Vincent, 281

Van Osdel, J. M., 171

Vantini, Rodolfo, 56

Vantongerloo, Georges, 363

Vanvitelli, Luigi, 13

Västeros, ASEA Building, 396

Vaucresson (S.-et-O.), 49 Avenue du Chesnay, 384-385; early house by Le Corbusier, 370, fig. 46

Vaudoyer, A.-L.-T., xxvi, 12

Vaudoyer, Léon, 143

Vaudremer, J.-A.-E., 142; _72_

Vauthier, L.-L., 91

Vaux, Calvert, 105, 195

Vegas Pacheco, Martín, 416

Venice, La Fenice, 14; Piazza S. Marco, 14

Verandas, 254, 256

_Ver Sacrum_, 297

Versailles (S.-et-O.), 13; Chalet aux Loges, 110; Hameau, Petit Trianon, 110; Mouron house, 314

_Vers une architecture_ (Le Corbusier), 368, 370

Vestier, N.-A.-J., 8

Veugny, M.-G., 119

Vézelay (S.-et-L.), 197

Vicenza, Villa Rotonda, 6

Viel, J.-M.-V., 128

Vienna, Academisches Gymnasium, 149; Academy of Fine Arts, 149; Albertina, 18, 39; Army Museum, 147; Arsenal, 40, 147; Artaria Building, 351; Austro-Hungarian Bank (earlier), 39; (later), 39, 147; Bodenkreditanstalt, 150; Britannia Hotel, 148; Burgtheater, 150; _73_; Burgtor, 39; Café Capua, 354; (Museum), 352; Dianabad, 123; _66_; Diet of Lower Austria, 39; Donau Hotel, 148; Epstein, Palais, 148; Felix-Mottlstrasse, 351; Fünfhaus Parish Church, 198; _99_; Goldman shop, 352; Goldman & Salatsch Building, 354; Heinrichshof, 149; _73_; Hofburg Palace, 150; 5-7 Invalidenstrasse, 351; Justizpalast, 148; Karlsplatzstation, 296; Kärntner Bar, 354; _151_; Landeshauptmannschaft, 39; Langer flat, 353; _155_; Lazaristenkirche, 198; low-cost housing, 346; Majolika Haus, 297; _138_; Mint, 39; Museum of Art History, 150; (of Natural History), 150; _Musikvereinsgebäude, 149; 40;_ Neustiftsgasse, 350; North Railway Station, 148; opera house, 149; _74_; 8 Operngasse, 148; Palace of Archduke Eugene, 148; Palffy, Palais, 18; Parliament House, 38, 149; Philipphof, 151; Portois & Fix offices, 297; Postal Savings Bank, 349; _154_; Rasumofsky, Palais, 18; Rathaus, 150; Reichstrasse, 148; Ringstrasse, 147; _74_; Rufer house, 355; Sacher’s Hotel, 148; Schottenhof, 39; Severinkirche, 198; Sezession art gallery, 297; South Railway Station, 148; Synagogue, 39; Theater an der Wien, 18; Theseus Temple, 39; University, 148; Urania, 351; Votivkirche, 112, 148; _99_; _see also_ Hietzing, Penzing, Purkersdorf

Viganò, 429

Vignon, Pierre, 11

Viipuri, city library, 381

Vilamajó, Julio, 416

Villanueva, Carlos Raúl, 414, 449(8)[199]

Villar i Carmona, Francesc de Paula del, 202

‘Ville Idéale de Chaux’, xxiv, xxv; _1_

Villejuif (Seine), school, 372

Vincennes (Seine), parish church, 46

Viollet-le-Duc, E.-E., 108, 109, 129, 136, 141, 176, 197-198, 283-284, 449(8)[194]; _56_, _98_, _101_

Virginia City (Nevada), 162

Visconti, L.-T.-J., 47, 48, 49, 110, 134; _27_, _68_

Vittel, Casino and Baths, 138

Vlugt, L. C. van der, 378; _163_

Voigtel, Richard, 111

Voit, August von, 25, 126

_Von Ledoux bis Le Corbusier_ (Kaufmann), xxviii

Voronikhin, Nikiforovich, 15

Voysey, C. F. A., 275-277, 279, 282, 453(12)[261], fig. 32; _129_

W

Waddesdon Manor (Bucks.), 163

Waesemann, H. F., 152

Wagner, Otto, xxviii, 296-729, 349-351; _138_, _154_

Wahlman, L. I., 360

Wailly, Charles de, 12

Wakefield (Yorks.), Town Hall, 219

Walhalla, 24; _11_

Walker, John, 122

Walker, Ralph, 400, 401

Wallot, Paul, 156

Walter, Thomas U., 79, 82, 123-124, 455(14)[302]; _39_, _82_

Walters, Edward, 76, 235

Waltham (Essex), Abbey, 178

Walton, George, 279, 299

Walworth, _see_ London (St Peter’s)

Wanstead, _see_ London (Merchant Seamen’s Orphan Asylum)

Ward, Basil, 468(23)[493]; _see also_ Connell, Ward & Lucas

Wardell, W. W., 105-106, 171, 196

Ware, William Robert, 144, 192; _see also_ Ware & Van Brunt

Ware & Van Brunt, 192, 194; _95_

Warren, Russell, 82, 86, 105; _42_

Warren, Whitney, 469(24)[516]; _see also_ Warren & Wetmore

Warren & Wetmore, 400; _177_

Warren (Mich.), General Motors Technical Institute, 418, fig. _55_; _168_

Washington, U.S. Capitol, 6, 79-80, 123-124, 166-167; _82_; Court of Claims, 167; Lincoln Memorial, 393, 400; _180_; Patent Office, 80; Post Office Department (former), 80; Smithsonian Institution, 105, 167; State, War and Navy Department Building (former), 80, 169; _82_; Temple of Scottish Rite, 400; Treasury 80; _38_; Washington Monument, 80; White House, 6, 79-80

Wasmuth, 321, 324

Waterhouse, Alfred, 185-186, 236, 259

Watts, Mary, 460(17)[381]

Wayzata (Minn.), Davis house, 425, fig. 57; Little house, 325

Webb, Philip, 177, 178, 182, 206-207, 211, 213, 218, 220, 259-260, 262-263, 454(12)[275], figs. 23, 25; _97_, _102_

Weimar, Bauhaus, 337, 367; War Monument, 367-368

Weinbrenner, Friedrich, 17, 22-23, 28, fig. 1; _10_

Welch, Edward, 69

Wellington College (Berks.), 208

Wells, Joseph M., 227, 469(24)[513]

Welwyn Garden City (Herts.), 405

_Wendingen_, 359

West, William Russell, 444(5)[272]

West Columbia (Texas), Elementary School, 422

Westmann, Carl, 397

Westmorland (Wis.), Jacobs house, 329

Wetmore, Charles D., 469(24)[516]

Wheatley Hills (N.Y.), Morgan house, 399

Wheeler, Gervase, 263

Wheeling (W. Va.), bridge, 119

Whistler, J. A. M., 286

Whitechapel, _see_ London

White Rock (R.I.), mill village, 86

White, Stanford, 223, 226, 227, 265, 267, 455(13)[287]-[288]; _see also_ McKim, Mead & White

White, William H., 174, 179

Wielemans, Alexander, 148

Wiener Werkstätte, 349

Wight, Peter B., 191, 193-194

Wijdeveld, H. T., 359

Wild, J. W., 74, 174, 235; _36_

Wilde, Oscar, 217

Wilkins, William, 4-5, 66-67, 96; _31_

Willard, Solomon, 80, 85, 102

Williams, A. & G., 75, 234

Willink, W. E., 219

Wills, Frank, 104, 106, 196

Wilmette (Ill.), Baker house, 322

Wils, Jan, 359

Wilton (Wilts.), St Mary and St Nicholas’s, 74

Wimmel, C. L., 27; _11_

Wimmel & Forsmann, 27, 36; _11_

Winckelmann, J. J., xxi, xxiii

Windsor Castle (Berks.), 94

Winnetka (Ill.), Crow Island School, 361

Winona (Minn.), Merchants’ National Bank, 249

Winterthur, Town Hall, 165

Wispers (Sussex), 210

Withers, F. C., 195

Wittenberg, housing estate, 367

Woburn (Mass.), Winn Memorial Library, 223

Wolff, 165

Wood, John, 63

Wood, Robert, xxii

Wood, Sancton, 160

Woodward, Benjamin, 176; _86_; _see also_ Deane & Woodward

Woodward, G. E., 264

Worcester (Mass.), Boston & Albany Railroad Station, 194; Polytechnic Institute, 192

Woonsocket (R.I.), Lippitt Woollen Mill, 86

Wren, Sir Christopher, 116

Wright, Frank Lloyd, xxviii, 232, 243, 270ff., 312, 320ff., 359, 431, 434, 456(14)[316], figs. 29-31, 38-42; _124-126_, _128_, _188_

Wurster, W. W., 383

Würzburg, Prison for Women, 18; _17_

Wyatt, Benjamin Dean, 63, 67; _31_

Wyatt, James, 2, 3, 117

Wyatt, Sir M. D., 127, 146, 162, 164; _65_, _83_

Wyatt, T. H., 74, 162

Wyatville, Sir Jeffrey, 94

Y

Yahara Boat Club, project for, 323

Yamasaki, Minoru, 423, 430

Ybl, Miklós, 151

Yealmpton (Devon), St Bartholomew’s, 174

_Yellow Book_, 285

Yeon, John, 425

Yorke, F. R. S., 382, 434

Young, Ammi B., 81, 89

Young, Brigham, 251

Young, John, 69

Young & Son, C. D., 128

Young & Son, J., 237

Z

Zakharov, A. D., 15

Zehlendorf, Perls house, 365

Zehrfuss, B.-H., 496(23)[505]

Zevi, Bruno, 321

Ziebland, G. F., 24, 27, 111

Ziller, Ernst, 38

Zinsser, Ernst, 417

Zocher, J. D., 42

Zurich, Observatory, 165-166; Polytechnic School, 165; Rütschi-Bleuler House, 165

Zwirner, E. F., 111

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● Transcriber’s Notes: ○ In the printed version of this book the page numbering started over at 1 for The Plates section. In this version, instead, the page numbers continue at 484, and the Index starts on page 677. The table of CONTENTS has been updated to reflect these changes. ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected. ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected. ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book. ○ Text that: was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). ○ The use of a caret (^) before a letter, or letters, shows that the following letter or letters was intended to be a superscript, as in S^t Bartholomew or 10^{th} Century.