The horizon is an interior (fig 1). It defines an enclosure. In its familiar sense, it marks a limit to the space of what can be seen, which is to say, it organises this visual space into an interior. The horizon makes the outside, the landscape, into an inside. How could that happen? Only if the "walls" that enclose the space cease to be thought of (exclusively) as solid pieces of material, as stone walls, as brick walls. The horizon organises the outside into a vertical plane, that of vision. Shelter is provided by the horizon's ability to turn the threatening world of the "outside" into a reassuring picture. But Heidegger repeatedly opposed the transformation of the world into a picture, a "world-picture." In The Metaphysical Foundations of Logic, he makes even more explicit the idea that the horizon is an enclosure, but also quickly dismissed the primacy of vision implied in the familiar sense of horizon:
We understand 'horizon' to be the circumference of the field of vision. But horizon, from orizein, is not at all primarily related to looking and intuiting, but by itself means simply that which delimits, encloses, the enclosure.
Before vision, the horizon is a boundary, an enclosure, an architecture.
The way we think about architecture is always organised by the way we think about boundaries. Traditionally it is a matter of walls dividing inside from outside, public from private, and so on. With modernity there is a displacement of the traditional sense of an inside, as an enclosed space established in opposition to the outside. All boundaries are now shifting. This shifting becomes manifest everywhere: in the city, of course, but also in all the technologies that define the space of the city: the railroad, newspapers, photography, electricity, advertisements, reinforced concrete, glass and steel architecture, the telephone, film, radio, war. Each can be understood as a mechanism that disrupts the older boundaries between inside and outside, public and private, night and day, depth and surface, here and there, street and interior, and so on. Today, the boundaries that define space are first and foremost an effect of the media. (And not exclusively visual media. Think for example about the space of sound: the radio, telephone, walkman.) The status of the wall has changed.
Throughout this century, this disturbance of boundaries has often been understood as a threat to identity, a loss of self. In talking about horizons, and in condemning their displacement by modern technologies, Heidegger, for example, was elaborating Nietzsche's claim that
a living thing can be healthy, strong and fruitful only when bounded by a horizon ... A man ... sickens and collapses [if] the lines of his horizon are always restlessly changing.
Modern man, then, will indeed be sick. With every new technology new sicknesses are identified. The idea of modernity can never be separated from the idea of sickness. Even space itself, or more precisely the absence of boundaries, is seen to produce sickness. At the turn of the century, urban theorists like Camillo Sitte criticised modern town planning for its failure to institute boundaries. Without a clear horizon, he said, the modern dweller suffers from new nervous disorders such as agoraphobia. 
But these sicknesses are almost always phantasmic. The identity of the supposedly unified self threatened by the displacement of the horizon is itself suspect and must be interrogated. This interrogation must address architectural discourse since the question of horizon is, from the beginning, an architectural question.
The same year that Heidegger publishes "Building, Dwelling, Thinking," the Spanish architect José Luis Sert, then president of CIAM (Congrès Internationaux d'Architecture Moderne), opens the 8th Congress, The Heart of the City, which was devoted to "The Core," with a long quotation from Jose Ortega y Gasset's The Revolt of the Masses:
For in truth the most accurate definition of the urbs and the polis is very like the comic definition of a cannon. You take a hole, wrap some steel wire tightly round it, and that's your cannon. So the urbs or the polis starts by being an empty space, the forum, the agora, and all the rest are just means of fixing that empty space, of limiting its outlines. The polis is not primarily a collection of habitable dwellings, but a meeting place for citizens, a space set apart for public functions. The city is not built, as is the cottage or the domus, to shelter from the weather, and to propagate the species - these are personal, family concerns - but in order to discuss public affairs. Observe that this signifies nothing less than the invention of a new kind of space, much more new than the space of Einstein. Till then only one space existed, that of the open country, with all the consequences that this involves for the existence of man. The man of the fields is still a sort of vegetable. His existence, all that he feels, thinks, wishes for, preserves the listless drowsiness in which the plant lives. The great civilisations of Asia and Africa were, from this point of view, huge anthropomorphic vegetations. But the Greco-Roman decides to separate himself from the fields, from Nature, from the geo-botanic cosmos. How is this possible? How can man withdraw himself from the fields? Where will he go, since the earth is one huge, unbounded field? Quite simply; he will mark off a portion of this field by means of walls, which set up an enclosed finite space over against amorphous, limitless space. Here you have the public square. It is not like the house, an "interior" shut in from above, as are the caves which exist in the fields, it is purely and simply the negation of the fields. The square, thanks to the walls which enclose it, is a portion of the countryside which turns its back on the rest, eliminates the rest, and sets up in opposition to it.
The urbs is "like" a cannon. The city is "like" a military weapon. This was not a casual example. War was written all over this congress and its idea of public space. But what kind of war? Most literally, it was World War II. The end of the war found many CIAM architects involved in the task of replanning central areas of bombed-out cities. They saw themselves as heart surgeons, trying to reconstruct vital organs of the city. From this came their preoccupation with the city and with "public space," which they understood as place of "public gathering," both in the traditional sense of "public squares, promenades, cafés," etc. , and also in what they saw as its most modern counterparts: "railroad stations, bus terminals, landing strips." But also from this came their clear, almost phobic, opposition to the new means of communications, which were already redefining the sense of public.
Radio, movies, television and printed information are today absorbing the whole field of communication. When these elements are directed by a few, the influence of these few over the many may become a menace to our freedom.
The media were identified with war, which is not surprising given its crucial role during WW II. Underlying this, however, was the common assumption that the public domain is the domain of violence, whether overt or latent, an assumption that is still currency today. Domestic violence is silenced, unrepresented. But isn't this silencing, this lack of representation, itself violent?
But CIAM 8 was not simply declaring war against the media. Sert insisted on bringing the media into the public square (movies, television screen, radio, loudspeakers ...), and in so doing turning public space, in his words, into "balconies from where they [the public] could watch the whole world."  Note that the balcony is an element from domestic architecture, a place for both looking and being looked at. To say that public space is a balcony is already to recognise that the public is not so much a negation of the interior, as in the quotation from Ortega y Gasset, but rather an occupation of its traditional boundary: the wall. To be in public is to be inscribed in the limit of the interior, inscribed in order to "watch the whole world" (a sense familiar to us today in the commonplace idea that to occupy public space is to be at home watching T.V.). Far from declaring war on the media, Sert was installing them.
The real war here is architectural. The very separation between public and private, inside and outside, is itself violent in Ortega y Gasset's passage. The public is established "in opposition," "against," "as negation;" "it turns its back," All these terms mark a certain hostility. Public space is produced by a violent effacement of the private. But here, returning to Ortega y Gasset's cannon, what is wrapped around the hole that is public space are the interiors excluded from it. The cannon is therefore constructed out of domestic spaces. It is not that public space is violent and the "interior" is safe. The "interior" is the steel wire of the cannon. It is the very substance of the weapon. The interior is therefore precisely the possibility of the violence that becomes visible outside it.
E. 1027 (fig 2).
A modern white house is perched on the rocks, a hundred feet above the Mediterranean sea, in a remote place, in Roquebrune at Cap Martin. The site is "inaccessible and not overlooked from anywhere."  No road leads to this house. It was designed and built by Eileen Gray for Jean Badovici and herself between 1928 and 1929. She named the house E.1027: "E" for Eileen, "10" for J (the tenth letter of the alphabet), "2" for B and "7" for G. They both lived there most of the summer months until Gray built her own house in Castellar in 1934. After the death of Badovici in 1956, the house was sold to the Swiss architect Marie Louise Schelbert. She found the walls riddled with bullet holes. Clearly the house had been the site of some considerable violence. In a 1969 letter, she comments on the state of the house: "Corbu did not want anything repaired and urged me to leave it as it is as a reminder of war."  But what kind of war? Most obviously, it was World War II. The bullet holes are wounds from the German occupation. But what violence was there to the house before the bullets, and even before the inevitable relationship of modern architecture to the military? And anyway, to start with, what is Le Corbusier doing here? What brings him to this isolated spot, this remote house that will eventually be the site of his own death?
As a young man he had travelled in the Balkans and the near East and had made sketches of strange, inaccessible places and scenes. It was perhaps through a natural, anti-romantic reaction of maturity that later, as a Purist, he proposed to paint what was duplicable and near-at-hand.
We will have to go back to Le Corbusier's earlier travels, to the "strange, inaccessible places and scenes" that he had conquered through drawing. At the very least, to Le Corbusier's trip to Algiers in the Spring of 1931. This was the first encounter in what will become a long relationship to this city, or in Le Corbusier's words: "Twelve years of uninterrupted study of Algiers."  By all accounts, this study began with his drawing of Algerian women. He said later that he had been "profoundly seduced by a type of woman particularly well built" of which he made many nude studies.  He also acquired a big collection of coloured postcards representing naked women surrounded by accoutrements from the Oriental bazaar. Jean de Maisonseul (later the director of the Musée National des Beaux Arts d'Alger), who as an eighteen year old boy had guided Le Corbusier through the Casbah recalls their tour:
Our wanderings through the side streets led us at the end of the day to the rue Kataroudji where he [Le Corbusier] was fascinated by the beauty of two young girls, one Spanish and the other Algerian. They brought us up a narrow stairway to their room; there he sketched some nudes on - to my amazement - some schoolbook graph paper with coloured pencils; the sketches of the Spanish girl lying both alone on the bed and beautifully grouped together with the Algerian turned out accurate and realistic; but he said that they were very bad and refused to show them.
Le Corbusier filled three notebooks of sketches in Algiers that he later claimed were stolen from his atelier in Paris. But Ozenfant denies it, saying that Le Corbusier himself either destroyed them or hid them, considering them a "secret d'atelier." The Algerian sketches and postcards appear to be a rather ordinary instance of the ingrained mode of a fetishistic appropriation of women, of the East, of "the other." But Le Corbusier, as Samir Rafi and Stanislaus von Moos have noted, turned this material into "preparatory studies for and the basis of a projected monumental figure composition, the plans for which seem to have preoccupied Le Corbusier during many years, if not his entire life." 
From the months immediately following his return from Algiers until his death, Le Corbusier seems to have made hundreds and hundreds of sketches on yellow tracing paper by laying it over the original sketches and retracing the contours of the figures (Ozenfant believed that Le Corbusier had redrawn his own sketches with the help of photographs or postcards).  He also studied Delacroix's famous painting Femmes d'Alger (fig 3) exhaustively, producing a series of sketches of the outlines of the figures in this painting divested of their "exotic clothing" and the "Oriental decor. " Soon the two projects merged (fig 4, fig 5) he modified the gestures of Delacroix figures, gradually making them correspond to the figures in his own sketches. He said that he would have called the final composition Femmes de la Casbah. But, in fact, he never finished it. He kept redrawing it. That the drawing and redrawing of these images became a life time obsession already indicates that something was at stake. This becomes even more obvious when in 1963-4, shortly before his death, Le Corbusier, unhappy with the visible aging of the yellow tracing paper, copied a selection of twenty six drawings onto transparent paper and, symptomatically, for someone who kept everything, burned the rest.
But the process of drawing and redrawing the Femmes de la Casbah reached its most intense, if not hysterical, moment when Le Corbusier's studies found their way into a mural that he completed in 1938 in E.1027 (fig 6). Le Corbusier referred to the mural as Sous les pilotis or Graffite à Cap Martin, and sometimes he also labels it Three Women. All three are remarkable titles. Why "pilotis" when Eileen Gray never speaks of pilotis? Why would Le Corbusier describe his own work as graffiti? And who are these three women anyway? According to Schelbert, Le Corbusier
explained to his friends that 'Badou' [Badovici] was depicted on the right, his friend Eileen Gray on the left; the outline of the head and the hairpiece of the sitting figure in the middle, he claimed, was 'the desired child, which was never born.'
This extraordinary scene, a defacement of Gray's
architecture, was perhaps even an effacement of her
sexuality, her relationship to Badovici notwithstanding. For
Gray was openly gay. And in so far as Badovici is here
represented as just one of the three women and reveals as
much as it conceals, it is clearly a "theme for a
psychiatrist," as Le Corbusier in Vers une
architecture remarks of the nightmares with which people
invest their houses.  We should also take into
account Le Corbusier's obsessive relationship to this house
as manifest - and this is only one example of a complex
pathology - in his quasi-occupation of the site after World
War II, when he built a small wooden shack (the "Cabanon")
for himself at the very limits of the adjacent property,
right behind Eileen Gray's house. He occupied and controlled
the site by overlooking it, the cabin being little more than
an observation platform, a sort of watchdog house. The imposition of
this appropriating gaze is even more brutal if we remember
that Eileen Gray had chosen the site because it was, in
Peter Adam's words, "inaccessible and not overlooked from
anywhere." But the violence of this occupation had already
been established when Le Corbusier painted the murals in
this house (there were eight altogether) without the
permission of Eileen Gray, who had already moved out. She
considered it an act of vandalism. Indeed, as Adam has put
it was a rape. A fellow architect, a man she admired,
had without her consent defaced her design
it was a rape. A fellow architect, a man she admired, had without her consent defaced her design.
The defacement of the house went hand in hand with the effacement of Gray as an architect. When Le Corbusier published the murals in his Oeuvre complète (1946) and in L'Architecture d'aujourd'hui (1948), Eileen Gray's house is referred to as "a house in Cap-Martin," her name is not even mentioned.  Le Corbusier will end up, later on, getting credit for the design of the house and even for some of its furniture.  Still today the confusion continues, with many writers attributing the house to Badovici alone, or at best, to Badovici and Gray, and some still suggesting that Le Corbusier had collaborated on the project. Eileen Gray's name does not figure, even as footnote, in most histories of modern architecture, including the most recent, and ostensibly critical ones.
"What a narrow prison you have built for me over a number of years, and particularly this year through your vanity," Badovici wrote to Le Corbusier in 1949 about the whole episode (in a letter that Adam thinks may have been dictated by Gray herself) . Le Corbusier replied in a way that makes it clear that he is replying to Gray:
You want a statement from me based on my worldwide authority to show - if I correctly understand your innermost thoughts - to demonstrate 'the quality of pure and functional architecture' which is manifested by you in the house at Cap Martin, and has been destroyed by my pictorial interventions. OK, you send me some photographic documents of this manipulation of pure functionalism ... Also send some documents on Castellar, this U-boat of functionalism; then I will spread this debate in front of the whole world.
Now Le Corbusier was threatening to carry the battle from the house into the newspapers and architectural periodicals. But his public position completely contradicted what he had expressed privately. In 1938, the same year he went on to paint the mural Graffite à Cap Martin, Le Corbusier had written a letter to Eileen Gray, after spending some days in E. 1027 with Badovici, where not only does he acknowledge her sole authorship but also how much he likes the house:
I am so happy to tell you how much those few days spent in your house have made me appreciate the rare spirit which dictates all the organisation, inside and outside, and given to the modern furniture - the equipment - such dignified form, so charming, so full of spirit.
Why, then, did Le Corbusier vandalise the very house he loved? Did he think the murals would enhance it? Certainly not. Le Corbusier had repeatedly stated that the role of the mural in architecture is to "destroy" the wall, to dematerialise it. In a letter to Vladimir Nekrassov in 1932, he wrote: "I admit the mural not to enhance a wall, but on the contrary, as a means to violently destroy the wall, to remove from it all sense of stability, of weight, etc."  The mural for Le Corbusier was a weapon against architecture, a bomb. But "why then to paint on the walls ... at the risk of killing architecture?" he asks in the same letter, and then answers: "It is when one is pursuing another task, that of telling stories."  So what then is the story that he so urgently needed to tell with Grafitte à Cap Martin?
We will have to go back once more to Algiers. In fact, Le Corbusier's complimentary letter to Eileen Gray, sent from Cap Martin on April 28 1938, bears the letterhead: Hotel Aletti Alger. Le Corbusier's violation of Eileen Gray's house and identity is consistent with his fetishisation of Algerian women. One might even argue that the child in this mural reconstitutes the missing (maternal) phallus, whose absence, Freud argues, organises fetishism. In these terms, the endless drawing and redrawing is the scene of a violent substitution that in Le Corbusier would seem to require the house, domestic space, as prop. Violence is organised around or through the house. In both circumstances (Algiers or Cap Martin) the scene starts with an intrusion, the carefully orchestrated occupation of a house. But the house is in the end effaced: erased from the Algiers' drawings, defaced at Cap Martin.
Significantly, Le Corbusier describes drawing as the occupation of a "stranger's house." In his last book, Creation is a Patient Search, he writes: "By working with our hands, by drawing, we enter the house of a stranger, we are enriched by the experience, we learn."  Drawing, as has often been noted, plays a crucial part in Le Corbusier's process of appropriation of the exterior world. He repeatedly opposes his technique of drawing to photography:
When one travels and works with visual things - architecture, painting or sculpture - one uses one's eyes and draws, so as to fix deep down in one's experience what is seen. Once the impression has been recorded by the pencil, it stays for good - entered, registered, inscribed. The camera is a tool for idlers, who use a machine to do their seeing for them.
Clearly, it is statements such as this that have gained Le Corbusier the reputation of having a phobia for the camera, despite the crucial role of photography in his work. But what is the specific relation between photography and drawing in Le Corbusier?
The sketches of the Algerian women were not only redrawings of live models but also redrawings of postcards. One could even argue that the construction of the Algerian women in French postcards(fig 7), widely diffused at the time,  would have informed Le Corbusier's life drawings(fig 8) in the same way that, as Zeynep Çelik notes, Le Corbusier precisely reenacts the images of foreign cities (Istambul or Algiers, for example) constructed by postcards and tourist guides when he actually enters these cities. In these terms, he not only "knew what he wanted to see,"  as Çelik says, but he saw what he had already seen (in pictures). He "enters" those pictures. He inhabits the photographs. The redrawings of the Femme de Algiers are also more likely to have been realised, as von Moos points out, from postcards and reproductions than from the original painting in the Louvre.  So what, then, is the specific role of the photographic image as such in the fetishistic scene of the Femme d'Algiers project?
The fetish is "pure presence," writes Victor Burgin, "and how many times have I been told that photographs 'lack presence,' that paintings are to be valued because of their presence!" Clearly this separation between painting and photography is what organises the dominant understanding of Le Corbusier's relation to photography. What these accounts seem to ignore is that here the drawing, the hand-crafted artistic meditation, is done "after" the photograph, the art reproduction, the postcard.
In fact, the whole mentality of the Femmes de la Casbah drawings is photographic. Not only are they made from photographs. They are developed according to a repetitive process where the images are systematically reproduced on transparent paper, the grid of the original graph paper allowing the image to be enlarged to any scale. This photographic sensibility becomes most obvious with the murals at Cap Martin. Traditionally, they have been understood as paradigm of Le Corbusier the painter, the craftsman detached from mechanical reproduction, an interpretation to which Le Corbusier himself has contributed with the circulation of that famous photograph of him, naked, working at one of the murals (fig 9). (This is the only nude image of him that we know. That it had to be here, in this scene, is in itself telling.) But what is normally omitted is that Graffite à Cap Martin was not conceived on the wall itself. Le Corbusier used an electric projector to enlarge the image of a small drawing onto the 2.50m x 4m white wall where he etched the mural in black.
It is said that, in using black, Le Corbusier was thinking about Picasso's Guernica of the year before, and that Picasso, in his turn, was so impressed with the mural at Cap Martin that it prompted him to do his own versions of the Femmes d'Alger (fig 10). Apparently, he drew Delacroix's painting from memory and was "frappé" to find out later that the figure he had painted in the middle, lying down, with her legs crossed, was not in Delacroix.  It was, of course, Graffitte à Cap Martin that he remembered, the reclining crossed-legged women (inviting but inaccessible), Le Corbusier's symptomatic representation of Eileen Gray. But if Le Corbusier's mural had so impressed him, how come Picasso chose not to see that a swastika was inscribed into the chest of the woman on the right? The swastika may be yet one more sign of Le Corbusier's political opportunism (Remember that the mural was done in 1938). But the German soldiers, who occupied the house during WWII, may not have seen the swastika either, for it was this very wall that was found riddled with bullet holes, as if it had been the site of some execution.
The mural was a black and white photograph. Le Corbusier's fetish is photographic. After all, photography too has been read in term of the fetish. Victor Burgin writes:
Fetishism thus accomplishes that separation of knowledge from belief characteristic of representation; its motive is the unity of the subject. The photograph stands to the subject-viewer as does the fetished object ... We know we see a two-dimensional surface, we believe we look through it into three-dimensional space, we cannot do both at the same time - there is a coming and going between knowledge and belief.
So if Le Corbusier "enters the house of a stranger" by drawing, could "the house" be standing in here for the photograph? By drawing he enters the photograph that is itself a stranger's house, occupying and reterritorialising the space, the city, and the sexualities of the other by reworking the image. Drawing on and in photography is the instrument of colonisation. The entry to the house of a stranger is always a breaking and entering - there being no entry without force no matter how many invitations. Le Corbusier's architecture depends in some way on specific techniques of occupying and yet gradually effacing the domestic space of the other (fig 11).
Like all colonists, Le Corbusier does not think of it as an invasion but as a gift. When recapitulating his life work five years before his death, he symptomatically wrote about Algiers and Cap Martin in the same terms:
From 1930 L-C devoted twelve years to an uninterrupted study of Algiers and its future ... Seven great schemes (seven enormous studies) were prepared free of charge during those years.
1938-39. Eight mural paintings (free of charge) in the Badovici and Helen Grey house at Cap Martin.
No charge for the discharge. Eileen Gray was outraged, now even her name had been defaced. And renaming is, after all, the first act of colonisation. Such gifts can not be returned.
P.S. In 1944, the retreating German Army blew up Eileen Gray's apartment in Menton having vandalised E. 1027 and Temple a Paiella (her house in Castellar) . She lost everything. Her drawings and plans were used to light fires.
P.P.S. On August 26, 1965, the endless redrawing of the Femmes d'Alger still unfinished, Le Corbusier went down from E. 1027 to the sea and swam to his death.
P.P.P.S. In 1977 a local mason in charge of some work in the house "mistakenly" demolished the mural Graffitte. I like to think that he did it on purpose. Eileen Gray had spend almost three years living on the site in complete isolation, building the house with the masons, having lunch with them every day. Then again, she did the same thing when building her own house at Castellar. The masons knew her well; in fact, they loved her, and hated the arrogant Badovici. They understood perfectly what the mural was about. They destroyed it. In so doing, they showed more enlightenment than most critics and historians of architecture.
P.P.P.P.S. Since then, the mural has been reconstructed in the house from the basis of photographs. It re-emerged from its original medium. The occupation continues.
Martin Heidegger, The metaphysical Foundations of Logic trans. Michael Heim (Bloomington: Indiana Press, 1984), p. 208. [back]
Friedrich Nietzsche, "On the uses and disavantages of history for life," Untimely Meditations trans. R. J. Hollingdale (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), p. 63. [back]
Camillo Sitte, City Planning according to Artistic Principles trans. George R. Collins and Christiane Crasemann Collins idem Camillo Sitte: The Birth of Modern City Planning (New York: Rizzoli International, 1986), p. 183. [back]
José Ortega y Gasset, The Revolt of the Masses (New York: W.W. Norton & Company Inc, 1932), pp. 164-5; cited, J.L. Sert "Centres of Community Life," CIAM 8: The Heart of the City, Towards the Humanization of Urban Life ed. J. Tyrwhitt et al. (New York: Pellegrini and Cudahy, 1952), p. 3. [back]
Sert, "Centres of Community Life," p. 6. [back]
Sert, "Centres of Community Life," p. 8. [back]
Peter Adam Eileen Gray: Architect/Designer (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1987), p. 174. [back]
Marie Louise Schelbert, letter to Stanislaus von Moos (February 14, 1969); quoted Stanislaus von Moos, "Le Corbusier as Painter," Oppositions (1980), n. 19-20, p. 93. [back]
James Thrall Soby, "Le Corbusier, Muralist," Interiors (1948), p. 100. [back]
Le Corbusier, My Work trans. James Palmes (London: The Architectural Press, 1960), p. 50. [back]
Samir Rafi, "Le Corbusier et 'Les Femmes d'Alger,'" Revue d'histoire et de civilisation du Maghreb (Algiers: January 1968), p. 51. [back]
Jean de Maisonseul, letter to Samir Rafi, (January 5, 1968); quoted, von Moos, "Le Corbusier As Painter," p. 89. [back]
From several conversations of both Le Corbusier and Ozenfant with Samir Rafi in 1964; quoted, Rafi, "Le Corbusier et 'Les Femmes d'Alger,'" p. 51. [back]
von Moos, "Le Corbusier as Painter," p. 91. [back]
Conversation of Ozenfant with Samir Rafi, (8 June, 1964); quoted, Rafi, "Le Corbusier et 'Les Femmes d'Alger,'" p. 52. [back]
von Moos, "Le Corbusier As Painter," p. 93. [back]
Rafi, "Le Corbusier et 'Les Femmes d'Alger,'" p. 54-55. [back]
Rafi, "Le Corbusier et 'Les Femmes d'Alger,'" p. 60. [back]
Le Corbusier refers to the mural as "Graffiti at Cap Martin," Le Corbusier, My Work; Stanislaus von Moos labels the mural "Three Women" (Graffite à Cap Martin), von Moos, "Le Corbusier As Painter;" and Samir Rafi labels the final composition from which the mural was derived "Assemblage des trois femmes: composition définitive. Encre de Chine sur papier calque. 49.7 X 64.4 cm. Coll. particulière. Milan," Rafi, "Le Corbusier et 'Les Femmes d'Alger.'" [back]
Marie Louise Schelbert, letter to Stanislaus von Moos, (February 14, 1969); quoted, von Moos, "Le Corbusier As Painter." [back]
Le Corbusier, Vers une architecture (Paris: Crès, 1923), p. 196. The passage here referred to is omitted in the English version of this book. [back]
Adam, Eileen Gray: Architect/Designer p. 311. [back]
See Adam Eileen Gray: Architect/Designer p. 334-335. No caption of the photographs of the murals published in L'Architecture d'aujourd'hui mentions Eileen Gray. In subsequent publications, the house is either simply described as "Maison Badovici" or credited directly to him. The first recognition of E Gray in architecture since the twenties came from Joseph Rykwert, "Eileen Gray: Pioneer of Design," Architectural Review (December 1972), pp. 357-361. [back]
For example, in an article entitled "Le Corbusier, muralist," published in Interiors (June 1948), the caption of the murals at Cap Martin reads: "Murals, interior and exterior, executed in sgraffito technique on white plaster, in a house designed by Le Corbusier and P. Jeanneret, Cap Martin, 1938. And still in 1981 in Casa Vogue n. 119, Milan, the house is described as "Firmata Eileen Gray-Le Corbusier" ("signed Eileen Gray and Le Corbusier"), and an Eileen Gray sofa as "pezzo unico di Le Corbusier" ("unique piece by Le Corbusier); quoted, Jean Paul Rayon and Brigitte Loye, "Eileen Gray architetto 1879-1976," Casabella (May 1982), n. 480, pp. 38-42. [back]
"Quelle réclusion étroite que m'a faite votre vanité depuis quelques années et qu'elle m'a faite plus particulièrement cette année". Badovici, letter to Le Corbusier, (December 30, 1949), Fondation Le Corbusier; quoted, Brigitte Loye, Eileen Gray 1879-1976: Architecture Design (Paris: Analeph/J.P. Viguier, 1983), p. 86. English in Adam, Eileen Gray: Architect/Designer p. 335. [back]
... Vous réclamez une mise au point de moi, couverte de mon autorité mondiale, et démontrant - si jecomprends le sens profond de votre pensée - 'la qualité d'architecture fonctionnelle pure' manifesté par vous dans la maison de Cap Martin et anéantie par mon intervention picturale. D'ac (sic), si vous me fournissez les documents photographiques de cette manipulation fonctionnelle pure: 'entrez lentement;' 'pyjamas;' 'petites choses;' 'chaussons;' 'robes;' 'pardessus et parapluies;' et quelques documents de Castellar, ce sous-marin de la fonctionnalité: Alors je m'efforcerai d'étaler le débat au monde entier ...
Le Corbusier, letter to Badovici, Fondation Le Corbusier; quoted in Loye, Eileen Gray 1879-1976: Architecture Design p. 83-84. English translation in Adam, Eileen Gray: Architect/Designer p. 335-336. [back]
Le Corbusier, letter to Eileen Gray, Cap Martin, (28 April, 1938); quoted, Adam, Eileen Gray: Architect/Designer pp. 309-310. [back]
"J'admets la fresque non pas pour mettre en valeur un mur, mais au contraire comme un moyen pour détruire tumultueusement le mur, lui enlever toute notion de stabilité, de poids, etc." Le Corbusier, Le passé à réaction poétique catalogue of an exhibition organised by the Caisse nationale des Monuments historiques et des Sites/Ministère de la Culture et de la Communication, (Paris: 1988), p. 75. [back]
"Mais pourquoi a-t-on peint les murs des chapelles au risque de tuer l'architecture? C'est qu'on poursuivait une autre tâche, qui était celle de raconter des histoires" Le Corbusier, Le passé à réaction poétique p. 75. [back]
Le Corbusier, Creation is a Patient Search (New York: Frederick Praeger, 1960), p. 203. [back]
Le Corbusier, Creation is a Patient Search p. 37. [back]
About French postcards of Algerian women circulating between 1900 and 1930 see Malek Alloula, The Colonial Harem (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986). [back]
Zeynep Çelik, "Le Corbusier, Orientalism, Colonialism," Assemblage (1992), n. 17, p. 61. [back]
von Moos, "Le Corbusier As Painter," p. 93. [back]
Victor Burgin, "The Absence of Presence," The End of Art Theory: Criticism and Postmodernity (Atlantic Highlands, New Jersey: Humanities Press International, 1986), p. 44. [back]
Rafi, "Le Corbusier et 'Les Femmes d'Alger.'" p. 61. [back]
Victor Burgin, "Modernism in the Work of Art," 20th Century Studies (December 1976) n. 15-16. Reprinted in The End of Art Theory p. 19. See also Stephen Heath, "Lessons from Brecht," Screen (1974), v. 15, n. 2, pp. 106 ff. [back]
Le Corbusier, My Work p.50-51. My emphasis. [back]
von Moos, "Le Corbusier As Painter," p. 104. [back]