try to like, but I couldn’t. Everything about it seemed wrong. For one thing it was a bit weathered and faded, like a child’s toy that has been left out over winter, which surprised me because it is only a dozen years old and the government had just spent £40 million refurbishing it, but I guess that’s what you get when you build with plastic. And it seemed much too overbearing a structure for its cramped neighbourhood. It would be an altogether different building in a park.
But what I really dislike about buildings like the Pompidou Centre, and Paris is choking on them, is that they are just showing off. Here’s Richard Rogers saying to the world, ‘Look, I put all the pipes on the outside. Am I cute enough to kiss?’ I could excuse that if some consideration were given to function. No one seems to have thought what the Pompidou Centre should do – that it should be a gathering place, a haven, because inside it’s just crowded and confusing. It has none of the sense of space and light and majestic calm of the Musée d’Orsay. It’s like a department store on the first day of a big sale. There’s hardly any place to sit and no focal point – no big clock or anything – at which to meet someone. It has no heart.
Outside it’s no better. The main plaza on the Rue St-Martin is in the shade during the best part of the day and is built on a slope, so it’s dark and the rain never dries and again there’s no place to sit. If they had made the slope into a kind of amphitheatre, people could sit on the steps, but now if you sit down you feel as if you are going to slide to the bottom.
I have nothing against novelty in buildings – I am quite taken with the glass pyramid at the Louvre and those buildings at La Défense that have the huge holes in the middle – but I just hate the way architects and city planners and everyone else responsible for urban life seems to have lost sight of what cities are for. They are for people. That seems obvious enough, but for half a century we have been building cities that are for almost anything else: for cars, for businesses, for developers, for people with money and bold visions who refuse to see cities from ground level, as places in which people must live and function and get around. Why should I have to walk through a damp tunnel and negotiate two sets of stairs to get across a busy street? Why should cars be given priority over me? How can we be so rich and so stupid at the same time? It is the curse of our century – too much money, too little sense – and the Pompidou seems to me a kind of celebration of that in plastic.
One evening I walked over to the Place de la République and had a nostalgic dinner at a bistro called Le Thermomètre. My wife and I spent our honeymoon in the Hotel Moderne across the way (now a Holiday Inn, alas, alas) and dined nightly at the Thermomètre because it was cheap and we had next to no money. I had spent the whole of my savings, some £18, on a suit for the wedding – a remarkable piece of apparel with lapels that had been modelled on the tail fins of a 1957 Coupe de Ville and trousers so copiously flared that when I walked you didn’t see my legs move – and had to borrow £12 spending money from my father-in-law in order, as I pointed out, to keep his daughter from starving during her first week of married life.
I expected the Thermomètre to be full of happy memories, but I couldn’t remember anything about it at all, except that it had the fiercest toilet attendant in Paris, a woman who looked like a Russian wrestler – a male Russian wrestler – and who sat at a table in the basement with a pink dish full of small coins and craned her head to watch you while you had a pee to make sure you didn’t dribble on the tiles or pocket any of the urinal cakes. It is hard enough to pee when you are aware that someone’s eyes are on you, but when you fear that at any moment you will be felled by a rabbit chop to the kidneys for
But what I really dislike about buildings like the Pompidou Centre, and Paris is choking on them, is that they are just showing off. Here’s Richard Rogers saying to the world, ‘Look, I put all the pipes on the outside. Am I cute enough to kiss?’ I could excuse that if some consideration were given to function. No one seems to have thought what the Pompidou Centre should do – that it should be a gathering place, a haven, because inside it’s just crowded and confusing. It has none of the sense of space and light and majestic calm of the Musée d’Orsay. It’s like a department store on the first day of a big sale. There’s hardly any place to sit and no focal point – no big clock or anything – at which to meet someone. It has no heart.
Outside it’s no better. The main plaza on the Rue St-Martin is in the shade during the best part of the day and is built on a slope, so it’s dark and the rain never dries and again there’s no place to sit. If they had made the slope into a kind of amphitheatre, people could sit on the steps, but now if you sit down you feel as if you are going to slide to the bottom.
I have nothing against novelty in buildings – I am quite taken with the glass pyramid at the Louvre and those buildings at La Défense that have the huge holes in the middle – but I just hate the way architects and city planners and everyone else responsible for urban life seems to have lost sight of what cities are for. They are for people. That seems obvious enough, but for half a century we have been building cities that are for almost anything else: for cars, for businesses, for developers, for people with money and bold visions who refuse to see cities from ground level, as places in which people must live and function and get around. Why should I have to walk through a damp tunnel and negotiate two sets of stairs to get across a busy street? Why should cars be given priority over me? How can we be so rich and so stupid at the same time? It is the curse of our century – too much money, too little sense – and the Pompidou seems to me a kind of celebration of that in plastic.
One evening I walked over to the Place de la République and had a nostalgic dinner at a bistro called Le Thermomètre. My wife and I spent our honeymoon in the Hotel Moderne across the way (now a Holiday Inn, alas, alas) and dined nightly at the Thermomètre because it was cheap and we had next to no money. I had spent the whole of my savings, some £18, on a suit for the wedding – a remarkable piece of apparel with lapels that had been modelled on the tail fins of a 1957 Coupe de Ville and trousers so copiously flared that when I walked you didn’t see my legs move – and had to borrow £12 spending money from my father-in-law in order, as I pointed out, to keep his daughter from starving during her first week of married life.
I expected the Thermomètre to be full of happy memories, but I couldn’t remember anything about it at all, except that it had the fiercest toilet attendant in Paris, a woman who looked like a Russian wrestler – a male Russian wrestler – and who sat at a table in the basement with a pink dish full of small coins and craned her head to watch you while you had a pee to make sure you didn’t dribble on the tiles or pocket any of the urinal cakes. It is hard enough to pee when you are aware that someone’s eyes are on you, but when you fear that at any moment you will be felled by a rabbit chop to the kidneys for
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