Highlighting the architecture of the Middlesex house of Eugenides’ novel as a major technology of modernity, Seymour argues for the biopolitical understanding of such modernist architecture and for the ways in which it often works against the exploitative effects of automation and sexology, yet constitutes a complex and even contradictory force in processes of modernization, and in the novel itself

Seymour, Nicole

English

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The Goose
Volume 17 | No. 1 Article 61
9-22-2018
Middlesex and the Biopolitics of Modernist
Architecture
Nicole Seymour
California State University, Fullerton
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Recommended Citation / Citation recommandée
Seymour, Nicole. "Middlesex and the Biopolitics of Modernist Architecture." The Goose, vol. 17 , no. 1 , article 61, 2018,
https://scholars.wlu.ca/thegoose/vol17/iss1/61.
NICOLE SEYMOUR 
 
Middlesex and the Biopolitics of 
Modernist Architecture 
 
There comes a point in Middlesex—page 258, to be exact—when the reader realizes that the 
title refers not, or at least not only, to the intersex status of narrator-protagonist Cal 
Stephanides, but also to a street: the street that, as of 1967, the Stephanides family lives on in 
the Detroit suburb of Grosse Pointe. Middlesex is also, by way of metonym, a house: the 
modernist abode in which the family lives. (All this becomes clear after Cal exclaims, in the 
eponymously-titled chapter in question, “Middlesex! Did anybody ever live in a house as 
strange?” [Eugenides 258]) Indeed, when one learns that Middlesex Boulevard is a real street in 
Grosse Pointe, and that Eugenides himself grew up in two modernist houses there, one might 
wonder if the novel began not with the idea of an intersex protagonist but with the idea of a 
house. 
 
I want to pursue this idea of a house, beginning with the observation that modernist 
architecture is one of the major technologies of modernity treated in the novel, alongside 
automation and sexology. Middlesex gestures broadly toward the role of modernist 
infrastructure in the rise of Detroit and its auto industry, tracking the eventual decline of all 
three (see Blanchard in this special cluster). Moreover, what architecture, automation, and 
sexology have in common is the organization of bodies. I therefore understand architecture as a 
matter of biopolitics, in the Foucauldian sense of administering, optimizing, and regulating 
human life (Foucault, Will). However, we must also note that the Stephanides’ home is one of 
the few structures in the novel that does not decay but is in fact continually updated. 
Additionally, as I will describe, modernist architecture often works against the exploitative 
effects of automation and sexology. Thus, it constitutes a complex and even contradictory force 
in processes of modernization, and in the novel itself.  
 
Before going further, we must establish a few points about both the Stephanides’ house and 
architectural history. The house was built in 1909 and exemplifies the “Prairie Style,” an early 
mode of modernist architecture developed most famously by Frank Lloyd Wright. The so-called 
“Prairie School” of architects developed “an ‘organic’ approach to design, which sought to bind 
a building to its site and its distinctive, regional landscape” (Moor 6). This style was 
distinguished by horizontal lines and massing, flat or low-pitched roofs with overhanging eaves, 
and windows grouped into horizontal bands—all of which evoked the wide, long and low 
horizons of the Midwest—and embraced the blurring of indoors and outdoors so quintessential 
to modernist architecture at large. As Cal sums it up, the home’s (fictional) architect “Hudson 
Clark . . . had designed Middlesex to harmonize with the natural surroundings. [He] followed 
1
Seymour: Middlesex and the Biopolitics of Modernist Architecture
Published by / Publié par Scholars Commons @ Laurier, 2018
the principles of Frank Lloyd Wright, banishing the Victorian vertical in favor of a Midwestern 
horizontal, opening up the interior spaces, and bringing in a Japanese influence” (258). 
 
Importantly, like other modernist architectural approaches, the Prairie School reacted against 
Greek and Roman classicism, which is relevant not only in terms of the Stephanides’ Greek 
heritage, but also vis-à-vis the most memorable iteration of classical architecture in the novel: 
the cheesy columns of “Hercules Hot Dogs,” the family’s restaurant chain. As architectural 
historian H. Allen Brooks once declared, the Prairie School created “the most original 
architecture that America has ever known” (ix). In this way, then, the house represents the 
family’s “successful” Americanization as much as anything else. (Similarly, in this special cluster, 
Sandilands argues that the mulberry tree outside the house serves to naturalize the family.) But 
it does much more. In what follows, I outline four ways of understanding the role of 
architecture in Eugenides’s novel. 
 
To begin with, the Stephanides’ house contradicts Eugenides’s own plotting work. Middlesex 
relies heavily on foreshadowing, dramatic irony, and notions of fate: nods, perhaps, to the 
Greek tragedies that form part of the family’s cultural heritage. We regularly encounter such 
statements as “General Hajienestis . . . will later proceed to his death in Athens” and, as Cal 
describes his classmates’ pubertal transformations, “deadlines encoded in the species are met” 
(88, 286). Similarly, as Breu observes in this special cluster, Eugenides makes Cal’s intersex 
status biologically predetermined. But if the novel’s architecture, as it were, is thus relentlessly 
teleological, the house is not: Cal tells us that, for Hudson Clark, “[t]he concept of stairs in the 
traditional sense was . . . something the world no longer needed. Stairs represented a 
teleological view of the universe, of one thing leading to another, whereas now everyone knew 
that one thing didn’t lead to another but often nowhere at all” (258). While the house does in 
fact contain stairs, various shelves and landings distract and divert the climber. In short, the 
house breaks out of pre-set form and design, something Eugenides’s plot never achieves.1  
 
Second, the house in Middlesex indexes sensitive issues of sex, gender, and family. Its open 
floor plan, lack of closets (!), and play with inside/outside, privacy/exposure speak to our 
protagonist’s humiliating medical exams and public scrutiny, but also to his self-acceptance and 
coming out to love interest Julie Kikuchi. (Following Kojima in this special cluster, we could 
implicate Julie in the aforementioned architectural notion of “Japanese influence.”) As Cal 
recalls, the stairway walls had peepholes that allowed one to spy on family members below; his 
mother, baffled by the kitchen’s separation from the family room, also complains, “‘how am I 
supposed to find curtains for th[e] windows? They don’t make curtains that big. Everyone can 
see right in!’ ‘Think of it this way,’” Cal’s father responds: “‘We can see right out’” (259). The 
modernist home thus disrupts traditional patterns and roles, and also counters the sexological 
gaze. 
 
                                                 
1 This tension, of course, does not necessarily constitute an aesthetic failing. Indeed, we might say that Eugenides’s 
interest in plot is a metatextual element of his novels—as seen perhaps most obviously in his latest, The Marriage 
Plot (2011). 
2
The Goose, Vol. 17, No. 1 [2018], Art. 61
https://scholars.wlu.ca/thegoose/vol17/iss1/61
Third, and related, the novel invokes architecture as a biopolitical force that, like automation 
and sexology, organizes bodies and draws out their “potential.” We see the disturbing 
biopolitics of automation when Cal’s grandfather goes to work on the auto assembly line, and in 
descriptions of Black foundrymen with no time “even to pick the burning bits of metal from 
their arms” (96). But the house represents human potential more utopically or, perhaps, 
heterotopically, to invoke Foucault yet again (“Of Other Spaces”). Alongside the affined Arts 
and Crafts movement, the Prairie School embraced handcrafting as a reaction against 
dehumanizing mass manufacture. Indeed, Frank Lloyd Wright’s utopic musings—in his houses, 
“[i]nterior spaciousness began to dawn,” both spiritually and in terms of square footage, and he 
imagined himself as part of “the better building of men in a better way” (Wright 143, 326)—
chime closely with Cal’s own on the novel’s last page: “Middlesex was . . . a place with few 
interior walls . . . a place designed for a new type of human being, who would inhabit a new 
world. I couldn’t help feeling, of course, that that person was me, me and all the others like 
me” (Eugenides 529). Built in 1909, Middlesex not only proves relevant to Cal here in 1975, but 
also gestures further into the future.  
 
Finally, I propose the house in Middlesex as an instance of what we might call “intersex 
ecology” or “intersex architectonics.” Here, I take inspiration from architectural theorist and 
transgender studies scholar Lucas Crawford—who, with an archive that ranges from Virginia 
Woolf’s modernist novel Orlando to New York City’s High Line park, shows us how architecture 
enables and/or constrains non-normative expressions of sex and gender.2 Most relevant to my 
purposes here, Crawford demonstrates how Woolf’s eponymous protagonist, rather than 
possessing a “discrete gender identity,” shifts and develops their gender in relationship with 
their house: a house that, like Middlesex, is always being updated (“Woolf” 167). Thus, we must 
ask: if “people stopped being human in 1913” when Henry Ford introduced the assembly line, 
what does it mean that a handcrafted, harmonious-with-nature home ushers in not only a “new 
type of human,” but an intersex one at that (Eugenides 95)? While humans like Cal share with 
queer and trans populations the biopolitical experiences of medicalization and pathologization, 
Middlesex—as status, as street, as structure, and as story—points us to the role of the built 
environment in the unique articulation of intersex identity and embodiment.  
  
                                                 
2 See Crawford’s book Transgender Architectonics: The Shape of Change in Modernist Space, which includes a 
version of the Woolf article cited herein. 
3
Seymour: Middlesex and the Biopolitics of Modernist Architecture
Published by / Publié par Scholars Commons @ Laurier, 2018
Works Cited 
 
Brooks, H. Allen. Prairie School Architecture: Studies from “The Western Architect.” U of Toronto 
P, 1975.  
 
Crawford, Lucas. Transgender Architectonics: The Shape of Change in Modernist Space. 
Routledge, 2016.  
 
---. “Woolf’s Einfühlung: An Alternative Theory of Transgender Affect.” Mosaic: A Journal for the 
Interdisciplinary Study of Literature, vol. 48, no.1, 2015, pp. 165-81.  
 
Eugenides, Jeffrey. The Marriage Plot. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2011.  
 
---. Middlesex. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2002.  
 
Foucault, Michel. “Of Other Spaces: Utopias and Heterotopias.” Translated by Jay Miskowiec, 
Diacritics, vol. 16, no.1, 1986, pp. 22-27. 
 
---. The Will to Knowledge: The History of Sexuality Volume 1. Translated by Robert Hurley, 
Penguin, 1998. 
 
Moor, Abby. Prairie Houses. PRC, 2002. 
 
Wright, Frank Lloyd. Frank Lloyd Wright: An Autobiography. 1943. Barnes and Noble, 1998.  
 
 
NICOLE SEYMOUR is Associate Professor of English at California State University, Fullerton. Her 
first book, Strange Natures: Futurity, Empathy, and the Queer Ecological Imagination, won the 
2015 Ecocriticism Book Award from the Association for the Study of Literature and 
Environment. Her latest book, Bad Environmentalism: Irony and Irreverence in the Ecological 
Age, will be released by the University of Minnesota Press in October 2018. 
4
The Goose, Vol. 17, No. 1 [2018], Art. 61
https://scholars.wlu.ca/thegoose/vol17/iss1/61


Middlesex and the Biopolitics of Modernist Architecture

Wilfrid Laurier University

The GooseVolume 17 | No. 1 Article 619-22-2018Middlesex and the Biopolitics of ModernistArchitectureNicole SeymourCalifornia State University, FullertonPart of the Critical and Cultural Studies Commons, Literature in English, North AmericaCommons, Nature and Society Relations Commons, and the Place and Environment CommonsFollow this and additional works at / Suivez-nous ainsi que d’autres travaux et œuvres:https://scholars.wlu.ca/thegooseThis article is brought to you for free and open access by Scholars Commons @ Laurier. It has been accepted for inclusion in The Goose by anauthorized editor of Scholars Commons @ Laurier. For more information, please contact scholarscommons@wlu.ca.Cet article vous est accessible gratuitement et en libre accès grâce à Scholars Commons @ Laurier. Le texte a été approuvé pour faire partie intégrantede la revue The Goose par un rédacteur autorisé de Scholars Commons @ Laurier. Pour de plus amples informations, contactezscholarscommons@wlu.ca.Recommended Citation / Citation recommandéeSeymour, Nicole. "Middlesex and the Biopolitics of Modernist Architecture." The Goose, vol. 17 , no. 1 , article 61, 2018,https://scholars.wlu.ca/thegoose/vol17/iss1/61.NICOLE SEYMOUR  Middlesex and the Biopolitics of Modernist Architecture  There comes a point in Middlesex—page 258, to be exact—when the reader realizes that the title refers not, or at least not only, to the intersex status of narrator-protagonist Cal Stephanides, but also to a street: the street that, as of 1967, the Stephanides family lives on in the Detroit suburb of Grosse Pointe. Middlesex is also, by way of metonym, a house: the modernist abode in which the family lives. (All this becomes clear after Cal exclaims, in the eponymously-titled chapter in question, “Middlesex! Did anybody ever live in a house as strange?” [Eugenides 258]) Indeed, when one learns that Middlesex Boulevard is a real street in Grosse Pointe, and that Eugenides himself grew up in two modernist houses there, one might wonder if the novel began not with the idea of an intersex protagonist but with the idea of a house.  I want to pursue this idea of a house, beginning with the observation that modernist architecture is one of the major technologies of modernity treated in the novel, alongside automation and sexology. Middlesex gestures broadly toward the role of modernist infrastructure in the rise of Detroit and its auto industry, tracking the eventual decline of all three (see Blanchard in this special cluster). Moreover, what architecture, automation, and sexology have in common is the organization of bodies. I therefore understand architecture as a matter of biopolitics, in the Foucauldian sense of administering, optimizing, and regulating human life (Foucault, Will). However, we must also note that the Stephanides’ home is one of the few structures in the novel that does not decay but is in fact continually updated. Additionally, as I will describe, modernist architecture often works against the exploitative effects of automation and sexology. Thus, it constitutes a complex and even contradictory force in processes of modernization, and in the novel itself.   Before going further, we must establish a few points about both the Stephanides’ house and architectural history. The house was built in 1909 and exemplifies the “Prairie Style,” an early mode of modernist architecture developed most famously by Frank Lloyd Wright. The so-called “Prairie School” of architects developed “an ‘organic’ approach to design, which sought to bind a building to its site and its distinctive, regional landscape” (Moor 6). This style was distinguished by horizontal lines and massing, flat or low-pitched roofs with overhanging eaves, and windows grouped into horizontal bands—all of which evoked the wide, long and low horizons of the Midwest—and embraced the blurring of indoors and outdoors so quintessential to modernist architecture at large. As Cal sums it up, the home’s (fictional) architect “Hudson Clark . . . had designed Middlesex to harmonize with the natural surroundings. [He] followed 1Seymour: Middlesex and the Biopolitics of Modernist ArchitecturePublished by / Publié par Scholars Commons @ Laurier, 2018the principles of Frank Lloyd Wright, banishing the Victorian vertical in favor of a Midwestern horizontal, opening up the interior spaces, and bringing in a Japanese influence” (258).  Importantly, like other modernist architectural approaches, the Prairie School reacted against Greek and Roman classicism, which is relevant not only in terms of the Stephanides’ Greek heritage, but also vis-à-vis the most memorable iteration of classical architecture in the novel: the cheesy columns of “Hercules Hot Dogs,” the family’s restaurant chain. As architectural historian H. Allen Brooks once declared, the Prairie School created “the most original architecture that America has ever known” (ix). In this way, then, the house represents the family’s “successful” Americanization as much as anything else. (Similarly, in this special cluster, Sandilands argues that the mulberry tree outside the house serves to naturalize the family.) But it does much more. In what follows, I outline four ways of understanding the role of architecture in Eugenides’s novel.  To begin with, the Stephanides’ house contradicts Eugenides’s own plotting work. Middlesex relies heavily on foreshadowing, dramatic irony, and notions of fate: nods, perhaps, to the Greek tragedies that form part of the family’s cultural heritage. We regularly encounter such statements as “General Hajienestis . . . will later proceed to his death in Athens” and, as Cal describes his classmates’ pubertal transformations, “deadlines encoded in the species are met” (88, 286). Similarly, as Breu observes in this special cluster, Eugenides makes Cal’s intersex status biologically predetermined. But if the novel’s architecture, as it were, is thus relentlessly teleological, the house is not: Cal tells us that, for Hudson Clark, “[t]he concept of stairs in the traditional sense was . . . something the world no longer needed. Stairs represented a teleological view of the universe, of one thing leading to another, whereas now everyone knew that one thing didn’t lead to another but often nowhere at all” (258). While the house does in fact contain stairs, various shelves and landings distract and divert the climber. In short, the house breaks out of pre-set form and design, something Eugenides’s plot never achieves.1   Second, the house in Middlesex indexes sensitive issues of sex, gender, and family. Its open floor plan, lack of closets (!), and play with inside/outside, privacy/exposure speak to our protagonist’s humiliating medical exams and public scrutiny, but also to his self-acceptance and coming out to love interest Julie Kikuchi. (Following Kojima in this special cluster, we could implicate Julie in the aforementioned architectural notion of “Japanese influence.”) As Cal recalls, the stairway walls had peepholes that allowed one to spy on family members below; his mother, baffled by the kitchen’s separation from the family room, also complains, “‘how am I supposed to find curtains for th[e] windows? They don’t make curtains that big. Everyone can see right in!’ ‘Think of it this way,’” Cal’s father responds: “‘We can see right out’” (259). The modernist home thus disrupts traditional patterns and roles, and also counters the sexological gaze.                                                   1 This tension, of course, does not necessarily constitute an aesthetic failing. Indeed, we might say that Eugenides’s interest in plot is a metatextual element of his novels—as seen perhaps most obviously in his latest, The Marriage Plot (2011). 2The Goose, Vol. 17, No. 1 [2018], Art. 61https://scholars.wlu.ca/thegoose/vol17/iss1/61Third, and related, the novel invokes architecture as a biopolitical force that, like automation and sexology, organizes bodies and draws out their “potential.” We see the disturbing biopolitics of automation when Cal’s grandfather goes to work on the auto assembly line, and in descriptions of Black foundrymen with no time “even to pick the burning bits of metal from their arms” (96). But the house represents human potential more utopically or, perhaps, heterotopically, to invoke Foucault yet again (“Of Other Spaces”). Alongside the affined Arts and Crafts movement, the Prairie School embraced handcrafting as a reaction against dehumanizing mass manufacture. Indeed, Frank Lloyd Wright’s utopic musings—in his houses, “[i]nterior spaciousness began to dawn,” both spiritually and in terms of square footage, and he imagined himself as part of “the better building of men in a better way” (Wright 143, 326)—chime closely with Cal’s own on the novel’s last page: “Middlesex was . . . a place with few interior walls . . . a place designed for a new type of human being, who would inhabit a new world. I couldn’t help feeling, of course, that that person was me, me and all the others like me” (Eugenides 529). Built in 1909, Middlesex not only proves relevant to Cal here in 1975, but also gestures further into the future.   Finally, I propose the house in Middlesex as an instance of what we might call “intersex ecology” or “intersex architectonics.” Here, I take inspiration from architectural theorist and transgender studies scholar Lucas Crawford—who, with an archive that ranges from Virginia Woolf’s modernist novel Orlando to New York City’s High Line park, shows us how architecture enables and/or constrains non-normative expressions of sex and gender.2 Most relevant to my purposes here, Crawford demonstrates how Woolf’s eponymous protagonist, rather than possessing a “discrete gender identity,” shifts and develops their gender in relationship with their house: a house that, like Middlesex, is always being updated (“Woolf” 167). Thus, we must ask: if “people stopped being human in 1913” when Henry Ford introduced the assembly line, what does it mean that a handcrafted, harmonious-with-nature home ushers in not only a “new type of human,” but an intersex one at that (Eugenides 95)? While humans like Cal share with queer and trans populations the biopolitical experiences of medicalization and pathologization, Middlesex—as status, as street, as structure, and as story—points us to the role of the built environment in the unique articulation of intersex identity and embodiment.                                                     2 See Crawford’s book Transgender Architectonics: The Shape of Change in Modernist Space, which includes a version of the Woolf article cited herein. 3Seymour: Middlesex and the Biopolitics of Modernist ArchitecturePublished by / Publié par Scholars Commons @ Laurier, 2018Works Cited  Brooks, H. Allen. Prairie School Architecture: Studies from “The Western Architect.” U of Toronto P, 1975.   Crawford, Lucas. Transgender Architectonics: The Shape of Change in Modernist Space. Routledge, 2016.   ---. “Woolf’s Einfühlung: An Alternative Theory of Transgender Affect.” Mosaic: A Journal for the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature, vol. 48, no.1, 2015, pp. 165-81.   Eugenides, Jeffrey. The Marriage Plot. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2011.   ---. Middlesex. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2002.   Foucault, Michel. “Of Other Spaces: Utopias and Heterotopias.” Translated by Jay Miskowiec, Diacritics, vol. 16, no.1, 1986, pp. 22-27.  ---. The Will to Knowledge: The History of Sexuality Volume 1. Translated by Robert Hurley, Penguin, 1998.  Moor, Abby. Prairie Houses. PRC, 2002.  Wright, Frank Lloyd. Frank Lloyd Wright: An Autobiography. 1943. Barnes and Noble, 1998.    NICOLE SEYMOUR is Associate Professor of English at California State University, Fullerton. Her first book, Strange Natures: Futurity, Empathy, and the Queer Ecological Imagination, won the 2015 Ecocriticism Book Award from the Association for the Study of Literature and Environment. Her latest book, Bad Environmentalism: Irony and Irreverence in the Ecological Age, will be released by the University of Minnesota Press in October 2018. 4The Goose, Vol. 17, No. 1 [2018], Art. 61https://scholars.wlu.ca/thegoose/vol17/iss1/61

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Middlesex and the Biopolitics of Modernist Architecture

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