Revisionist histories can be dangerous. Writers and historians alike are sometimes tempted to revisit a well-known work of art, design, or engineering to position themselves as the up-and-coming scholar injecting life into a dusty, staid history. But then there are objects that have never received their due scholarship. The penthouse apartment of Charles de Beistegui, overlooking the Champs-Élysées from 1931 to 1961, is one such object. In his new book entitled Machine à Amuser, published by MIT Press ($65), Wim van den Bergh takes on the recontextualization of an abode that came to be over three lively years in interwar Paris.
At the heart of this monograph is the concept of the “autobiographical house,” an idea that repositions the occupant-designer (not the architect) as the author of their space. It’s a fascinating dynamic that unfolds in the creation of what was essentially a party house, built for the French-born Mexican socialite Beistegui to host parties for his Paris set. The architects of this penthouse, modernist stars Le Corbusier and Pierre Jeanneret, have long overshadowed Beistegui and his own contributions to his “house of fun.” The title of Van den Bergh’s book cheekily nods at this by reframing Le Corbusier’s famous quote “A house is a machine for living in.”
Within these pages is a surprising romp through costume parties, balls, galas, and dinners with the bohemians of 1920s Paris, told through the tabloids of the day. This cast of characters is as much a part of the development of the penthouse as the cult of personality that put its design to paper. Van den Bergh’s expertise is in nuance. He recontextualizes Beistegui among his peers, examines how their tastes influenced his own, and then draws a panoramic picture of the penthouse homes of the 1920s, with the house Le Corbusier and Jeanneret called “de Beistegui” at the center.
Readers are propelled into the perfectly imperfect world of the Parisian elite—torn between the domestic frills of the Victorian age and the steadfast functionalism of the twentieth century. The penthouse typology is one that could never have existed in the pre-machine age: it was the invention of the elevator that permitted buildings to ascend to skyscraper heights. Prior to this, the top floor of a town house was more likely to be occupied by servants, relegated to a realm of low ceilings and (in the summer) stifling heat. Van den Bergh’s meticulous re-reading of correspondence between Beistegui and his architects reveals that the client had originally requested bedrooms for two servants, with a separate entryway for the staff. The designers, however, went against this and opened up all the staff thruways, in a way exposing the gears of the household and forcing what may have been an uncomfortable social interaction for upper-class Parisians of the time.
Throughout this urban palace are other mechanical gadgets worthy of a theater set: movable walls, a house-wide electric radio broadcasting system, and a concealed cinema projection screen that could be lowered from the ceiling. The whole world was a stage for Beistegui whose “raison d’être was seemingly his own amusement,” according to the author. But, the past is a sneaky and unexpected protagonist in Beistegui’s set design. In revealing the occupant’s design autonomy, van den Bergh also reveals a man of the world, torn between bygone days and the future. For all the electric gizmos integrated into the design of the penthouse, Beistegui insisted that every room be illuminated only by the old-world charm of candlelight. If we look at this home only through the designs of its modernist architects, we are liable to neglect how its elaborate design reflects an era of great change for the upper class of Europe.
