Charles Correa. Charles Correa

the quirky little bridge, the dragon wall, the pond of water and so forth. Yet, when you actually get there and start walking through the garden, it gradually builds and builds until it finally overwhelms you. Hornby all over again! First you go through the sequence of pond and bridge and dragon wall in one direction, then you find yourself coming in from another direction, experiencing them all in another sequence, in another order, from another height and so forth. The same handful of props are used and reused, again and again. And each time, because of a slight change in angle, or in sequence, they carry a new significance.

      Rashomon

      Restricting the number of elements, and using them over and over, is the key decision. It confers on the Chinese garden the rigour that the mandatory square piece of paper generates in Origami. By making the number of set-pieces finite, but the variations in your perception of them seemingly infinite, the garden becomes, at one and the same time, both holistic and episodic. Perhaps the repeated tales told in Rashomon (the bandit, the husband, the onlooker, the wife) also stem from this same paradigm. With each narration of the identical events, truth is reborn again in a new form, transforming the lyrical open-ended tales of Scheherazade into the refracted and imploded metaphysics of Kurosawa’s masterpiece.

      Tinplate rails for toy trains

      That is what toy trains are really about—those wonderful tinplate rails that made patterns across the bedroom floor (the way the real thing makes patterns across a landscape, or across a nation), abstract patterns that recall in the mind’s eye the true reality of railway journeys. Today, these toys are no longer available. What killed them off? The banal quest for super-realistic ‘Scale Model’ railways, those stunningly prosaic attempts at so-called ‘realism’. Instead of the continuously changing patterns of demountable rails, we have today scale-track, nailed down permanently on to a baseboard—in the process fatally maiming that extraordinarily sophisticated level of abstraction and imagination that children brought to their tinplate layouts.

      Entrance portico of the Assembly

      The Assembly at Chandigarh

      He flies through the air with the greatest of ease

      That daring old man on the flying trapeze.

      —Ancient Occidental folk song

      I

      One arrives at Chandigarh. One travels through the town, past the houses spread out in the dust like endless rows of confidence tricks; and down the surrealistic roads—V.1’s and V.2’s—running between brick walls to infinity. Chandigarh, brave new Chandigarh, born in the harsh plains of the Punjab without an umbilical cord.

      Then in the distance, like an aircraft carrier floating above the flotsam and jetsam of some harbour town, appears the Secretariat. From miles away one sees it, white in the sunlight, racing along with the car, riding high above the rows of gimcrack houses that make up the foreground. Gradually this proscenium clears, and the other two elements of the Capitol appear: the Assembly and the High Court; and the three buildings ride together against the grey-blue foothills of the Himalayas. Ride together, swinging sometimes in front of each other and sometimes behind enormous banks of earth. One approaches closer and closer to the complex, and the bleached whiteness deepens slowly into the grey-green of concrete, the simple outlines of the masses dissolve into an astonishing, voluptuous complexity of shadow and substance.

      Incredible, evocative architecture! ‘Stones are dead things ­sleeping in quarries, but the apses of St. Peter are a passion!’ Throughout his life, Corbusier has sought to create an architecture of passion. His buildings—both in concept and visual language—have always been presented at a certain decibel level. No sotto voce, no politeness, but—like Wagner—thunder in the concert hall. This is probably the singlemost important fact about Corb because it necessitates his discarding any solutions which cannot be projected at the decibel level he favours.

      How does one project architecture at this decibel level? As an intelligent architect, Corb immediately perceived the necessity for a strong concept (‘the plan is the generator’); but concept alone is not enough, and as an artist he became more and more aware of the importance of developing an impassioned visual language that would project these concepts. Thus, each of Corb’s buildings was a consecutive step in his search to develop the power—and further the boundaries—of his vocabulary and syntax. Other architects from Brazil to Tokyo have created buildings which can be termed ‘applied Corb’; Corb himself has never applied what is safe and proven. He has always sought to demonstrate something we did not know.

      In 1922, Cocteau wrote: ‘Genius, in art, consists in knowing how far we may go too far. Don’t touch it any more, cries the amateur. It is then that the true artist takes his chance.’

      And Corb himself has written in his poem, ‘Acrobat’:

      An acrobat is no puppet.

      He devotes his life to activities

      in which, in perpetual danger of death,

      he performs extraordinary movements

      of infinite difficulty, with disciplined

      exactitude and precision . . . free

      to break his neck and his bones and

      be crushed.

      Nobody asked him to do this.

      Nobody owes him any thanks.

      He lives in an extraordinary

      world, of the acrobat

      Result: most certainly! He does things

      which others cannot.

      Result: why does he do them?

      others ask. He is showing off;

      he’s a freak; he scares us, we pity him;

      he’s a bore.

      Concept and language—in his work up to the Unite d’Habitation at Marseilles, Corb gave weight to both these aspects of architecture. (In fact, the Unite is an astonishing complex of spatial, structural, economic and perhaps sociological relevance.) Since then—and especially in his buildings in India—Corb has become more and more absorbed in his visual language; and however masterful this language may have become, it is still only one aspect of any great architecture. So we have the High Court in Chandigarh: a building where large areas were ill-planned and badly lit, but with a spellbinding entrance where a whole new aesthetic world came into being; and the Secretariat: a structure with a magnificent façade, like a stage set. Did not the earlier Corb promise something less skin-deep, something more conceptual?

      The third building in the complex, the new Assembly, is in this sense a return to the earlier Corb, for in this Assembly he has produced an architecture that is not restricted to an entrance, nor to a façade, but to the functions of the programme and to the very spaces within the building itself.

      II

      The idea behind the Assembly is extremely simple: along three sides of the building, 300 ft square, are located offices and conference rooms; the fourth side is an enormous portico which ‘orients’ the building towards the High Court. In the centre is an interior court, 200 ft across, ranging from 35 ft to 45 ft high, wherin are located the hyperbolic form of the Assembly chamber, the rectangle (surmounted by a skewed pyramidal roof) of the Council chamber and the extraordinary collection of spaces, ramps and platform levels that make up the forum. (Corb has provided the principal users of the building—the legislators, the office workers, the press and the visiting public—each with their own system of entrances, lobbies, stairs, etc., thus ensuring