Photographer Mark Henley reflects on the CHF836 million ($908 million) renovation of the United Nations Office at Geneva (UNOG). Henley has been based at the historic Palais des Nations, which is at the centre of the massive project, for several years. He has been shortlisted for a Sony World Photo Prize.
The Palais was desperately in need of modernisation in so many ways. The heat in my small office on the top floor was sometimes unbearable in summer, and I am guilty of taking photos stressing the rusted windows of the building. I also delighted in the inconsistencies of offices in spaces that clearly weren’t designed to be offices and all the other hazards of change-in-use over the past 85 years since the main structure was completed – and that for a completely different organisation, the long-dead League of Nations.
Drink the water from the taps at your peril, and let’s not go into the fire hazards of aged wiring (1,700km of it to be replaced) and how it’s way off the scale in terms of modern energy efficiency or access for the disabled. Even the more modern structures had the bad luck to be built when asbestos was in fashion.
I have to confess that like many aged structures with its accidental uses and adapted functions it had an enormous amount of charm. There are the press rooms for example – one with glass-topped booths each with a light at the top – which seem to have been the subject of ancient battles for possession. For me they resembled monks’ cells with attendant reliquaries – the filing cabinets still containing religiously guarded clippings dating from deep into the last century. All gone now, booths and all.
I think I’m going to miss the huge pair of Belgian tapestries bearing half-naked women from around the world on the way to the UN’s main Press Briefing Room: an artistic monument to changing mores, always salutary to consider just before a press conference while the sniffer dogs ran around our equipment seeking explosives.
That room was the forum for many beautifully choreographed set-pieces between security and stars, VVIPs and my press brethren, international and otherwise. There was a space left at the front, desk free, a square of scuffed carpet – our empire – the pit for photographers under the line of fire of the television cameras lining the back and the sides of the room on big occasions. Between these spaces sat the correspondents, from Mexico to Senegal via China, India, Japan and around Europe, representing obscure journals and big agencies.
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