In 1914, thirty years before revisiting his former home country as part of a handful of francophone artists and  intellectuals (see part I of this essay), Charles-Edouard Jeanneret alias Le Corbusier had written an article entitled "La maison suisse". Given its remote place of publication (it appeared in a journal in Dijon, France) the essay remained unknown outside the narrow circle of Corbusier-aficionados. It is revealing at least in three ways. First, because of its explicit format as a travel account, directly comparable, in that respect, to similar texts by Paul Budry, Jeanneret's one-time friend in Lausanne (not to mention Paulhan's Petit guide). Second, because it offers a rare glimpse into the architect's bonds with the patriotic zeitgeist, widespread as it was in Switzerland in the run-up to the First World War, and more particularly with the Heimatschutz movement. And third - most of all! - because the article chooses "the window" as a starting point for its discussion of the vernacular roots of the "Swiss House".

It is probably fair to say that most of Le Corbusier's theorizing is based on the "eyewitness authority" of the travel writer he is - among many other things. The role he assigned to his "Voyage d'Orient"A is symptomatic in this respect. Its belated publication in book form became his testament of sorts (it appeared in 1965, the year of his death). The voyage itself had been undertaken in 1910-11, and no later than 1925 he had summarized the itinerary in a sketch to be published in his book L'Art décoratif d'aujourd'hui. Granted that the "Voyage utile" ("useful voyage"), as he labelled it, might as well be entiteled "le mensonge utile" ("useful lie"), given that it makes the reader believe that the trip both originated from and ended up in Paris, while technically its starting point was Vienna and its end point La Chaux-de-Fonds, Switzerland. A location he must have thought to be somewhat at odds with the trajectory of a world architect.

"La maison suisse" thus belongs to the "obscure" side of Le Corbusier's biography. When it was published, eleven years before L'Art décoratif d'aujourd'hui, Jeanneret was 27 years old and just about to reach the climax of his career as the architect of the local business class. A few years previously, extended travels through Switzerland and Germany have preceded, including research in libraries at home and abroad, all aiming towards the compilation of a textbook on urban planning reform in Switzerland. Camillo Sitte and Paul Schultze-Naumburg, the ideologues of the urban planning reform and Heimatschutz movements in the Geman speaking world around 1900, served as a guide. Granted that the work, a diploma thesis of sorts, was never submitted to the La Chaux-de-Fonds Art School, where Jeanneret had been studying, nor was it ever printed during Le Corbusier's lifetime - not least because in the meantime another journey had thwarfed this plan: the "Voyage d'orient" which I have just referred to.

Returning to "La maison suisse": "Believe it or not, these black dots are actually windows," Jeanneret writes at the beginning of the 1914 essay, commenting the image of a typical wooden house in Evolène, Valais. Why are they so small? - In such houses, one is condemned to silently endure "the monstrous presence of the mountains", Jeanneret explains. "This is where Switzerland begins, in these terrible mountains, at the sources of the Rhone and even further back in the many steep valleys, several of which we climbed to confront the peaks of rock and ice: Evolène, Zinal, Zermatt. There we found in the wooden houses the absolute and immovable hieratic character (...), and inside the larch wood houses, between the four dark flanks of squared timber, we glimpsed the poetry of the intimately shared inward gaze".

The description of the windows in the Valais log buildings could almost be transferred 1:1 to the Engadin. Though for climatic reasons (the winter in the high valleys of the Grisons being harsher than in the Valais) the Engadin house is typically encased in a massive stone shell, it has a wooden core, analogous to the Valais Spycher. The characteristic funnel shape of the whitewashed stone window openings is intended to provide maximum light to the tiny hatches in the wooden structure.  

All this seems interesting enough. And yet, like Paulhan 30 years later, it is the sgraffito decorations that Jeanneret finds most worthy of comment when he refers to "our famous street in Schulz (sic! - the name is actually Schuls, alias Scuol) in the Engadin, covered in glistening snow, with its white façades, its wrought iron decorations, its frescoes and a sky of deep ultramarine" (Jeanneret at that time appears to know the region only from hearsay). He sees the sgraffiti decoration as an indication that architecture is determined not only by the climate and topography but also by what he calls "race". Race? - The term here means something akin to a peoples's "cultural heritage" or "style" and the way it is modified and enriched by foreign influence. It is in such a way, he writes, that western Switzerland was infiltrated by France, northern Switzerland by southern Germany, Ticino and the Grisons by Italy. Somewhat glossing over this complexity he then goes on referring to the Romanian farmer who "paints wildly in spring the same ornamental patterns that the "Romanche" (= the Romansh-speaking Grisons farmer) applies 'al fresco' to his wall, once the charming curves of balusters and sturdy architraves have been carved into the clean plaster."

No later than in the following section Jeanneret returns to the "window question". This time it is the typical 17th century Appenzell house that is called to the witness stand. "Here we were able to see how the same structure (the principle of log construction, S.v.M.) was subjected to a clear guiding principle. The wooden beams rise upwards over several storeys so as to frame endless rows of closely spaced windows". The issue now is the "progress" that separates the "rationally thought-through" window solution from the "primitive" form of the Valais block construction. The people who live here are no longer under the spell of the horror and nightmare of the glacier, Jeanneret writes. They have reshaped the landscape, but instead of merely expoloiting it for agriculture, they have taken a massive step towards modernity: "Les gens tricotent, tissent, et brodent" ("People knit, weave, and embroider"). Thus, log cabins have been replaced by an early form of industrial construction, window hatches have become ribbon windows that offer a maximum of lighting for workshops - we are just one doorstep away from the "fenêtre en longeur".

"What is the point of looking outside?" - From the 'mal-foutu' to Art Brut

In short, if applied to the technique of building with iron and concrete, the structural logic that made possible the vast window expanses of the Appenzell house cannot help but to lead up to the “five points of a new architecture”, the magic formula by which Jeanneret, now Le Corbusier, meant to sum up the “rationalist” or “technical” language of New Building, and of which the "elongated window" is an undispensable part (1925). Another twenty years later, however, a few weeks before two nuclear bombs reduced Hiroshima and Nagasaki to rubble, this techno-optimistic line of thought was no longer at the forefront.

Could it be that the vernacular or folk tradition of building, as represented in the Valais or Engadin mountain house, acquired a new relevance around 1945? All the more so since this happened against the backdrop of a long tradition of critical involvement in "primitive" forms of building, such as those just mentioned and those that had resurfaced in the wake of the global economic crisis of 1929?

At the time of Le Corbusier's visit to Guarda, the logic behind the "elongated window" - technical progress and rationalization at all cost - was no longer the issue. In the twilight of the times the technology of the Valais Spycher and the Engadine house no longer looked like fallen out of time. The same might be said with respect to the stone-built farmhouses in the Swiss Jura, not so dissimilar from the houses in Guarda with their gabled roofs ("frontons grecs") and their tiny window hatches, which Le Corbusier in his later books liked to highlight as a synonyme of his origins . Thanks to H. Allen Brooks we even know about the "ghost house" on Mont Cornu near Le Locle, where he had taken a retreat for a few months to survive the winter as a hermit 35 years earlier, between 1911 and 1913. A photograph shows him standing in front of that house (to which, admittedly, he had added a large horizontal window). Granted that his outfit (black suit, waistcoat, bow tie, and something like a heavy velvet coat) is after all not much less theatrical than the Könz family's pose in Guarda will be 30 years later.

Perhaps the most obvious result of that re-discovery of the vernacular tradition is what one may call the romanticism of the mal-foutu. And it is here, finally, that Le Corbusier’s interests overlap with those of his travel companion Jean Dubuffet. For if the romanticism of the rough and poorly made is a premise to what will later be called "Brutalism," Dubuffet is the one who took the most advantage of that "jolie quinzaine enchantée" ("plaesant and enchanted fortnight") in Switzerland, as he referred to the trip in a letter to Paulhan. The visit to Switzerland helped Dubuffet to trigger no less than an art historical landslide. Having heard about the art being produced in psychiatric clinics and nursing homes in Switzerland, he began to systematically explore the trails of what he will later call "Art Brut". Works by Aloyse, Heinrich-Anton Müller and the most talented of them all, Adolf Wölfli, subsequently formed the basis for the large collection of "Art Brut", which Dubuffet ended up donating to the city of Lausanne in 1971.

“Une chanson que braille une fille en brossant l’escalier me bouleverse plus qu’une savante cantate. Chacun son goût. J’aime le peu. J’aime aussi l’embrionnaire, le mal façonné, l’imparfait, le mêlé (etc.)" (“A song brayed by a girl while sweeping the stairs moves me more than a sophisticated cantata. To each his own. I like the little. I also like the embryonic, the poorly crafted, the imperfect, the mixed (etc.))" Dubuffet wrote in 1945. - Given his interests, he could not have ignored that a few years before their joint excursion to Guarda, his slightly older travel companion Le Corbusier had published an essay about Louis Soutter (Minotaure, 1936). Soutter, a relative of Le Corbusier's, was not a psychiatric patient. He had returned to Switzerland in the 1920a from a successful career as violinist and art teacher in the United States but found no work and ended up living a miserable life in nursing homes. From time to time, Le Corbusier came to look him up. On one occasion he brought him a selection of his books and manifestos - Une maison, un palais (1928) among them. Comparable to Wölfli in the power of formal invention, Soutter covered page after page with a rampant growth of intertwined vegetal and figurative motives. "No more windows, these useless eyes", he joked in his conversations with Le Corbusier. "What's the point of looking outside"? - He made his point by encircling the cousin's optimistic window fantasies with proliferating baroque ornaments as if he wanted to suffocate them.

In his Minotaure-essay, Le Corbusier picks up on Soutter's diatribe. As an architect, he cannot but disagree. Yet Soutter was not the first to put the flee of "dark space" into his ear. A year before, while in New York, Le Corbusier still used to make fun of the surrealists and all the young artists who emulate them by exploring "the tangled catacombs of consciousness" ("les souterrains compliqués de la conscience"), insisting that a healthy individual has no choice but to prefer daylight. He pretends not to understand why so many young artists are interested in Caravaggio, a "troubled artist" ("artiste troublé") who allegedly worked in a studio painted black and where "light fell from a small opening." We know that soon enough Le Corbusier will catch up with this "perversion." Dark spaceB, often painted black and lit from above by ways of "light canons" and other devices will become an inseparable companion to his architecture after 1945, from the Unité d'habitation in Marseilles to the Assembly Hall in Chandigarh, from Ronchamp to La Tourette .

There is even a date for modern architecture's descent into the underworld. 1945, a mere few weeks before his visit to the Engadin, Le Corbusier had been asked to study the feasibility of a subterranean basilica in the Provence as a homage to Mary Magdalen, Christ's legendary woman follower. She is said to have spent the last years of her life in a cavern at La Sainte Baume. A local architect by the name of Edouard Trouin had made a first proposal that looks like a bunker dedicated to a mysterious earth cult.

Though Trouin's project remained suspended, Le Corbusier thought of it as the nucleus of a rather vast landscape of small buildings at the service of "sacred tourism" (in other words: pilgrimage) to be built on the Northern side of the mountain. Ste.Baume appears to have triggered a mysterious obsession with dark space, better: with the underground. In an exchange with one of his editors who had inquired why there was no church or chapel on the roof terrace of the Unité d'habitation, he answered that if he were to build a church, it would be a cavern, like at the time of the catacombs, when to be a Christian was illegal.  Once confronted with the challenge to build a chapel on a mountaintop - Notre-Dame du Haut in Ronchamp - it looks as if it had been a matter of course to conceptualize it as something akin to a cave.  No wonder that for the cave-chapel's light catching "periscopes" the architect referred to his early sketches of the Serapeum at Villa Adriana, itself an underground sanctuary.C

What is first seen by the pilgrim approaching the sanctuary at Ronchamp from the parking lot is the chapel's steeply rising and slightly inward curved South Wall with its irregularly arranged and variously sized and funneled lighting slits. Its form and symbolism could thus not have been left to chance. In a plaster model of 1950, Le Corbusier explored the possibility of marking the front wall by randomly arranged ovoid, triangular and cross-shaped perforatione, including an engraved representation of what looks like a symbol of the Lamb of God.

Five among the perforations are rectangular and thus somewhat resemble Engadin lighting slits, while twenty-two have an ovoid shape that rather makes one think of the German shells that had attacked the 19th century building now being replaced by the new one. The 'Commission d'Art Sacré' didn't like the proposal (the wall looked like "pierced with scattered, fanciful openings, thrown down like a basket of sand", as the church officials put it), upon which the architect came up with the solution that was actually built. It is based on a concrete "skeleton" whose surfaces are defined by metallic meshes covered with a thin layer of concrete, the openings now being all rectangular, either converging inwards or opening up inside-out by ways of conical "light catchers" indeed somewhat reminiscent of Engadine peasant houses, albeit in the materiality more akin to a theater-prop than to a piece of vernacular building.

"Tecta Lubrica". Or: Schellenursli's revenge

What does the scholarly "literature" say regarding Le Corbusier's visit in Guarda? - Nothing. Certainly not on Le Corbusier's side. Neither in Le Corbusier's correspondence, nor, consequently, in any of the numerous essays and books on Ronchamp - arguably the most precious one is by Josep Quetglas (Breviario de Ronchamp, 2017) - does the word "Guarda" appear. The few printed references relative to our "case" go back to Iachen Ulrich Könz: in one of his books on the domestic buildings of the Engadine he writes that Ronchamp's south wall had been inspired by Corbusier's visit to Guarda (1978), and in the obituary about Könz, written 1981 by his friend, the poet and writer Andri Peer, we read: "The famous architect Le Corbusier came to Guarda especially to meet Könz and visit the village with him. The great architect later acknowledged that certain structural elements, particularly the walls and windows in Guarda, had inspired him in the construction of the Chapelle de Ronchamps (sic!).” - So much for local legend. There is no evidence whatsoever that Le Corbusier should ever have admitted such a direct inspiration for any of his formal inventions. Thus if the Engadin houses actually were a precendent, then only one among many others.

Why, after all, Schellen-Ursli in this context? - His appearance coincided in time with Le Corbusier's and Dubuffet's visit to Guarda. But while the French tour group left no trace in Guarda (except perhaps in the form of some very remarkable residential buildings by the Graubünden architect Rudolf Olgiati, who was clearly inspired by Le Corbusier - but that is another story), Schellen-Ursli's appearance on the horizon of children's literature continues to shape the popular image of Grisons folk art to this day. The book that started it all was published in 1945. The story is based on the “Chalandamarz” parade at the beginning of spring, in which the noise made by cow and goat bells carried by the children of Guarda is supposed to drive away winter. Little "Uorsin" or "Ursli" is teased by his classmates and has to make do with a tiny bell. But high up in his grandfather's alpine hut, he finds the prop that will give him his name and ultimately his “triumph” over all the other boys in the village. In the end, more than the story itself, it was probably the ever graceful and harmless posture of Alois Carigiet's art that helped the book become a worldwide success and brought the subliminally sexual symbolism of the giant cowbell into the fantasy worlds of tens of thousands of proper families.

Carigiet, a close friend of the Könz family and one of Switzerland's best-known illustrators and poster artists at the time was himself from Graubünden (his breakthrough as a freelance artist was still to come). Who knows whether, in the home outside whose door the landlord got into a heated exchange with Le Corbusier on that summer evening in 1945, the authors of Schellen-Ursli were making the final preparations for the printing of their book? (it was published in October of that year)

But returning to Paulhan's travelogue: what did the author have on his mind when he coined the term "maisons lubriques" (in latin: "TECTA LUBRICA")? - We will, of course, never know. DeepL translates "maisons lubriques" (="Slippery Houses") as "house of lust", and that is perhaps good enough. The most literal (if purely unintential) illustration of the term has probably been given in a video animation by Jeffrey Huang that was recently shown in an exhibition on architecture in the Alps. It shows an alpine barn as it undergoes a process of digitally generated dissolution and re-configuration, a process designed as if to imitate what happens in our brain when our senses are confused by an overdose of complicated and contradictory visual information as can be caused by the stacking of contradictory graphic motives on top of each other.

paragon. With a grain of salt, the socio-cultural chaos of the Engadin's real-life “building culture” could certainly be characterized by the words Harald Szeemann chose for the border crossers and outsiders of modern Swiss art, even though he was certainly not thinking of architecture, nor of the tourist industry's cancerous excesses in Switzerland's border regions.

“The radiance of the Alps," he writes," the magnetic anomalies, the tendency toward sectarianism, so widespread in the foothills of the Alps, the dialects, the multilingualism, the abrupt changes from Catholicism to Protestantism, let alone the decentralization, all have created conditions in the art of this region (...) that favor individualism. And individualism involves the development of one's own inner world, a withdrawal from the res publica, from society.” Szeemann is concerned with the cultural and artistic plus-value that individualism is capeable of bringing to art: “The reward for this human condition is a theology of one's own, or rather a vision, the gift of second sight, which is not to be confused with utopia, for utopia is always based on a social view of society as a whole.” The built highlights - and the “catastrophes” - of today's Engadin architecture are the result of this condition.

In 1945, a few weeks after returning to Paris, Jean Dubuffet publishes the first volume of his series Collection de l'Art Brut. The back cover features one of Adolf Wölfli's lovingly composed and meticulously executed pencil drawings (“Hortensia.skt.Adolfina”) together with the maxim: “Les fous ne sont pas si fous qu'on dit, ni les sains si sains” (“The mad are not as mad as everyone thinks, nor the sane as sane”. Wölfli — who had already been dead for 15 years at that point — is by far the most important of the masters of “Art Brut” that Dubuffet began collecting during his trip to Switzerland. 1972, barely more than a quarter of a century later Szeemann has Adolf Wölfli's cell in the Psychiatrische Klinik Waldau (Waldau Psychiatric Clinic) reconstructed as part of the legendary documenta 5D in Kassel. In the guise of a work of installation art, this narrow space, partly filled up by the stacks of the artist's drawings and collages, brought the name Wölfli into the network of the global art system.

As for Alois Carigiet, his fate almost took the opposite course. In 1948, the Kunstmuseum Solothurn had heralded Carigiet's fame as one of the most important figurative Swiss painters of the post-war period with a major exhibition of his work. In 1982, the Bündner Kunstmuseum Chur decided to celebrate Carigiet's 80th birthday with a memorable retrospective (Chur is the capital of the canton of Graubünden, Carigiet's home canton). Then things quieted down again around him. No serious art museum has presented him since. As to the exhibition organized in Carigiet's honor by the Swiss National Museum Zürich in 2015, staged with the help of mountain backdrops made of papier-mâché, it introduced the painter into the Hall of Fame of “folk art”, totally marginalizing his profile as a major artist, thus paving his descent into the sphere of patriotic entertainment. Note that at that time, Louis Soutter and Adolf Wölfli had already been part of the repertoire of Swiss modernism for decades, which in turn meant that their own dialogue with the long and anonymous traditions of book printing and folk art — think only of the fantastic cartouches, cartilages and rocaille motifs reminiscent of Mannerism or Art Nouveau models in Soutter's graphic comments to Le Corbusier, or of Wölfli's symphonic, carpet-like friezes of diamonds, flowers, and bells – was destined to be thoroughly overlooked. The “folkloric character” of this art stands in the way of its perception as “high art,” Wölfli researcher Elka Spoerri herself at one point self-critically noted. All the more precious, in our context, is her discovery that the most important ornamental pattern used by Wölfli, the “Glöggliring,”E (ring of little bells) is derived from the cowbells hanging under the canopy of the farmhouse where Wölfli had worked as a farmhand for many years .

What conclusions can we draw from the fact that the cowbell also happens to be the prop that gives “Schellenursli” his name and his “triumph” over all the other boys in the village - besides the fact that its weight and size make it a likely symbol of archaic manhood? Apart from the different places they occupy in the visual culture of their time, the personae of “Skt. Adolf II” (as Wölfli signed some of his works) and of Schellenursli are both rooted in folk art and in the secrets of elementary psychology stored in it.

Similarities and formal analogies are not tantamount to reciprocal “influence” in this type of relationship. Nor are they in the case of the funnel-shaped windows in Le Corbusier's Ronchamp chapel and those of Guarda. But they can serve as a measure of the existential shock waves that transformed the art system in the years after World War II and that ended up shaping the discourse more than any individual artwork might have been capeable of doing.

Bibliografie

Quellen:

• Baudoui, Rémi, and Arnaud (eds.) DERCELLES. Le Corbusier. Correspondance. Lettres À La Famille 1926-1946. Paris / Lausanne (FLC / Infolio), 2013.
• Budry, Paul. «La Suisse Devant Le Tourisme», Die Schweiz - Suisse - Svizzera, 4, 1944, o.S.
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• Chönz, Selina, and Alois CARIGIET. Schellen-Ursli. Ein Engadiner Bilderbuch, Zürich (Orell Füssli Verlag), 1945 ff.
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Geschichte und Kritik:

• Brooks, H. Allen. Le Corbusier's Formative Years. Chicago (Chicago University Press), 1997.
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• Caviezel, Nott. «‘Die Geschichte Des Sgraffitos Ist Nich Nicht Zu Ende Geschrieben’ (Gespräch Mit Paulin Nuotclà)», Kunst+Architektur in der Schweiz, 4, 2023, 46-51.
• Doornkaat, Hans ten. Alois Carigiet. Kunst Grafik Schellen-Ursli, Zürich (Orell Füssli), 2015.
• Dosch, Leza. Kunst und Landschaft in Graubünden. Bilder und Bauten seit 1780. Zürich (Scheidegger & Spiess), 2001.
• Gargiani, Roberto, and Anna ROSSELLINI. Le Corbusier, Béton Brut and Ineffable Space, 1940-1965. Surface Materials and Psychology of Vision. Lausanne / Abington (EPF Press / Routledge), 2011.
• Haupt, Isabel. «Kunstvolles Kratzen. Die Renaissance der Sgraffito-Trechnik im 19. Jahrhundert», Kunst+Architektur in der Schweiz, 4, 2023, 4-15.
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• Maniaque, Caroline. Le Corbusier et Les Maisons Jaoul. Projet et fabrique. Paris (Picard), 2005.
• McIntosh, Nicole, and Jonathan Louie. 2021. Swissness Applied. Learning from New Glarus. Zürich (Park Books).
• Moos, Stanislaus von. «Brutalism's Ghosts - Le Corbusier, Art, and War», in Ruth Baumeister, ed., What Moves Us? Le Corbusier and Asger Jorn in Art and Architecture, Silkeborg / Zurich (Museum Jorn / Verlag Scheidegger & Spiess), 2015, 17-25.
• Passanti, Francesco. «The Vernacular, Modernism, and Le Corbusier» JSAH, 56, 1997, 4, 438-51.
• Pauly, Danièle. Ronchamp. Lecture d'une architecture. Paris (Editions Ophrys), o.J. (1979).
• Providênca, Paulo. «Ronchamp. South Wall«. Joelho 13, 2022, 21-44.
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