This chapter addresses the invisibilities, openings and transparencies of city architecture in Émile Zola's Paris, focusing on La Curée (The Kill) from 1872 and Au Bonheur des Dames (The Ladies’ Paradise) from 1883, the second and eleventh books in the twenty-novel Rougon-Macquart cycle (1871–93), which endeavoured to provide ‘A Natural and Social History of a Family under the Second Empire’. The architecture which dominates these two novels – Haussmann's boulevards and their mansions in La Curée, the modern department store in Au Bonheur des Dames – comes closer to bringing about total visibility and connectedness than any of the city spaces I have considered so far. Yet even as they seem to achieve total openness in the city, these forms of architecture continue to repress and exclude other spaces and forms of life, especially working-class spaces. They do so not through darkness or obfuscation as in Mary Barton, but through the promotion of visibility to an absolute and overwhelming principle. This process involves a phantasmagorical blending of architecture and commodities, in which the commodity's mystifying and alienating character comes to be incorporated into the structure of the city. Glass and iron allow transparency to become heightened in these predominantly bourgeois spaces, but in such a way that new kinds of ideological enclosure are created, thereby taking to an extreme Lefebvre's illusion of transparency. This involves a confusion of interior and exterior which recalls what we saw in Dickens, but now operating less through processes of mobile ruination and restoration (though these are also present) than through the extension of the intoxicating logic of the commodity into a principle of architectural structure.

The multiplication of visibility and transparency brought about by these new forms of architecture is both described and enacted by Zola's use of literary montage, which anticipates cinema, as Sergei Eisenstein was the first to point out. For Eisenstein the Rougon-Macquart cycle was not only a single ecstatic whole built out of a series of montage effects (matching what Eisenstein sought to achieve in his films), but also ‘poetic and musical’, in the way Zola

This chapter examines spatial and architectural whiteness in the nineteenth-century city, taking it as a final example of invisible architecture in the period. I propose that such whiteness is both a precursor and a counterpoint to the white walls that would come to define modernist architecture in the early twentieth century. In line with a number of critics in recent decades, the chapter therefore reads the nineteenth century, or the ‘Victorian Age’, as neither hermetically sealed nor uniform, but rather as porous and temporally fractured, while still recognising that it displays recurrent features and patterns which cut across texts and spaces.

I begin from Mark Wigley's suggestion that the hidden logic of modernist architecture is to make decoration and the absence of decoration one and the same while claiming to erase ornament completely, and that this is exemplified by the white wall, where ‘having been stripped of decoration, the white surface itself takes over the space-defining role of decorative art’. I argue that in contrast to this erasing role within modernism, nineteenth-century whiteness is strikingly multiple and unsettled, alive with the contradictions which are typically submerged in the white walls of the International Style practised by Gropius, Le Corbusier and their contemporaries. The whiteness of the nineteenth-century city cleanses but also dirties, erases but also exposes, conceals ornamentation but also functions as ornament. Such whiteness is a compelling example of invisible architecture. Like the other forms of invisible architecture discussed in this book, it carries a powerful ideological force yet also retains a utopian aspect, seeming to offer in its blankness the hope of limitless possibilities. Though not itself a space, urban whiteness is nonetheless paradigmatic of the spaces and structures I have considered so far, operating as an aesthetic feature that is both fascinating and disturbing, at once dazzlingly visible and hauntingly empty. To begin to explore these contradictions, I turn first to Herman Melville's Moby-Dick (1851) and its celebrated chapter ‘The Whiteness of the Whale’, which although not concerned directly with the city, acts as a point of departure for the issues I wish to consider.

In chapter 5 of Dombey and Son, Paul Dombey is christened in a ‘chill and earthy’ (DS 5.61) church that seems to anticipate his own untimely demise. Dickens quotes Hamlet's words to Polonius, ‘into my grave?’ (DS 5.61; Hamlet II.ii), in relation to it. In the manuscript version of the novel an addition appears, in John Forster's hand, describing the font as a ‘rigid marble basin which seemed to have been playing a churchyard game at cup and ball with its matter-of-fact pedestal, and to have been just at that moment caught on the top of it’. This note, whose status is uncertain, is not included in most editions of the novel from the original 1846 serialisation onwards. Yet it usefully points to a peculiarity of architecture in Dickens, that no matter how ‘rigid’ or ‘matter-of-fact’ it seems, it is nearly always infused with movement, even playfulness. The solid, practical font is imagined as being on the verge of instability, poised at the momentary midpoint of a repeated movement up and down, part of a child's game; a fort-da movement perhaps. This instability extends to the text itself, since it is unclear to what extent the description properly belongs to the novel, or to Dickens.

I take this paratextual addition as exemplifying the way architecture in Dickens is always infiltrated by its opposite, by anti-architecture.It is my argument in this chapter that we should read Dickens as expressing a new understanding of architecture that is dynamic, based on movement rather than stability, and therefore appropriate to the modern city. Focusing on Dombey and Son and Our Mutual Friend, I read the railway and the river as forms of anti-architecture which both connect and divide urban space, and in doing so undo the conventional role of architecture as securing and stabilising the environments we inhabit. This anti-architectural tendency extends to the uncanny domestic houses of these two novels, so that what architecture does, and is, and its role within literature, are all called into question.

Invisible Architecture

What is invisible architecture? It is what holds the modern city together, but also what prevents it from appearing as a unified and knowable entity, since it means there is always some part of the city which is hidden. It is structure which traverses the transparent, the unseen and the mobile, yet is resistant to interpretation as a totality. Like the psychoanalytic unconscious, it cannot be grasped directly, though its existence can be inferred or projected. It organises city space by limiting and directing perception, especially visual perception. It typically conceals or represses what is unpleasant under capitalism, such as the connections between rich and poor, or wealth and waste, but it can also provide a space for the possible reimagining or reshaping of the city. It brings together the reactionary, paranoid, ideological and molar aspects of the modern city with its capacity for the utopian, fluctuating and destabilising, without simply collapsing or reconciling these things.

The contention of this book is that what I am calling invisible architecture plays a significant role in the literary and cultural imaginary of the years between approximately 1830 and 1910, in ways which only become apparent when the city is analysed as the meeting point of intersecting drives towards mobility, concealment and transparency. This was a period when cities in Britain and elsewhere seemed no longer graspable or comprehensible as a single whole (if they ever were), unless perhaps as a ‘mass’, a concept which unifies the city's population only to render it more unknowable. William Cook Taylor, whom Asa Briggs calls ‘an apologist of the new industrial system’, described northern English industrial towns in the 1840s as ‘an aggregate of masses, our conception of which clothe themselves in terms which express something portentous and fearful’. Raymond Williams notes that ‘the great city was […] so overwhelming, that its people were often seen in a single way: as a crowd, as “masses” or as a “workforce”’. For Charles Baudelaire, the modern city is ungraspable because it disallows totalisation, like modernity itself, which he calls ‘the ephemeral, the fugitive, the contingent, the half of art whose other half is the eternal and the immutable’.

This book has traced the figure of invisible architecture, in its combination of the hidden, the mobile and the transparent, across a range of nineteenth-century writers, cities and spatial forms. Throughout, I have attempted to show how apparently disparate features of urban space, and the drives that accompany them, gain new significance when read together as dimensions of this larger spatial complex. I have also sought to expand the ways we might think about architecture in relation to urban space and literature, moving beyond its most straightforward and obvious manifestations. Yet although I have proposed invisible architecture as a concept associated with modernity (which is itself, of course, not a stable or singular notion), it is not only applicable to the nineteenth century, nor to the cities and writers I have discussed. In this Conclusion I offer one example of how the ideas and approaches pursued in this book might be extended to another context, that of twentieth- and twenty-first-century New York. Applications to global and historical contexts at a greater remove from the texts I have discussed would also be possible, but New York since 1900 offers a combination of literary, cultural and architectural connections to, alongside divergences from, the concerns of this book that make it a fitting place to carry my readings one step further. I take as a starting point Christoph Lindner's claim that in New York, ‘the modern city does not disappear or perish in the era of globalization, but is subsumed and reconfigured’. If this is so, the question becomes: which features of invisible architecture are preserved or reconfigured in an increasingly globalised New York, and in what ways? In offering a provisional response to this question, this Conclusion begins to articulate how invisible architecture might continue to be of use beyond the primary framework in which I have developed it.

The examples that follow are necessarily highly selective. If New York is, as Kenneth Goldsmith's 2015 reimagining of the Arcades Project has it, the capital of the twentieth century, as Paris was of the nineteenth for Benjamin (and it has at least a reasonable claim to the title), then I cannot possibly do it justice here.

Gothic architecture has often been positioned as antithetical to urban modernity. In Contrasts: or, A Parallel between the Noble Edifices of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries and Similar Buildings of the Present Day; Shewing the Present Decay of Taste (1836), A. N. W. Pugin lays out the view that European Gothic was the pinnacle of Christian architecture and, in a related way, of unified social order, in contrast to the degraded and fragmented modern city. Before the English Reformation, it was ‘the faith, the zeal, and, above all, the unity, of our ancestors, that enabled them to conceive and raise those wonderful fabrics that still remain to excite our wonder and admiration’, but once ‘schism’ and ‘avarice’ took over, ‘the spell was broken, the Architecture itself fell with the religion to which it owed its birth, and was replaced by a mixed and base style’. For Pugin, the restoration of Gothic architecture must be accompanied by ‘a restoration of the ancient feelings and sentiments that motivated’ its creators, otherwise ‘all that is done will be a tame and heartless copy’. Similarly, at the end of Volume 1 of The Stones of Venice, which has celebrated Venetian Gothic, Ruskin argues that for city-dwellers, the function of architecture should be ‘to tell us about nature’, but that this is no longer possible in London, dominated by ‘grim railings and dark casements, and wasteful finery of shops, and feeble coxcombry of club-houses’. Ruskin contends that ‘the fresh winds and sunshine of the upland’ that true Gothic is able to evoke is always ‘better than the choke-damp of the vault, or the gas-light of the ball-room’, which define the modern city. As Barry Bergdoll observes, ‘the notion that Gothic was associated with England's glorious past and cherished institutions was established as early as 1741’, generating a form of Gothic nationalism that would later spread across much of Europe, alongside an attempt to ‘craft identity through nostalgia for a lost “natural” community’.

This chapter focuses on the structural role played by invisible architecture in Manchester, the ‘shock-city’ of the 1830s and 40s, in the writing of James Kay (1804–77; Kay-Shuttleworth from 1842), Friedrich Engels (1820–95) and Elizabeth Gaskell (1810–65). In different ways, these writers each position hidden, underground and unconscious spaces, in particular the cellar-dwelling, as both structurally necessary and disruptive to the industrial capitalist system which generates such spaces. This arrangement is the result of a spatial and social repression that seeks to preserve the existing form of capitalist relations of production, but in doing so throws up spaces whose invisibility to dominant forms of power provides an opportunity for emergent or residual forms of thought and praxis to subsist within the city, albeit in tenuous and marginal ways. As I will show, such invisibility is a risk. It provides limited opportunities for selfdefinition to some working-class characters in Mary Barton (1848), such as Alice Wilson, but leads to absolute degradation for others, such as the Davenport family.

I approach visibility and invisibility in these texts as two sides of what Henri Lefebvre calls the ‘double illusion’ by which space conceals its socially produced nature. This double illusion consists of ‘the illusion of transparency’ on one hand and ‘the illusion of opacity, or “realistic” illusion’ on the other. In the illusion of transparency, visibility is foremost and space appears to be an open realm of free activity, in the same way as free-market capitalism appears to allow individual freedom. In the realistic illusion, invisibility takes precedence, so that objects encountered in space function as material blocks of ideology, appearing to have a ‘natural’ reality that conceals their origins. In this second illusion, contingent structures are given a cloak of permanence, obviousness and self-sufficiency. In Mary Barton, we might think of the attitude taken towards a desperately hungry Jem Wilson by the Carson family's servants, who ‘would have willingly given him meat and bread in abundance; but they were like the rest of us, and not feeling hunger themselves, forgot it was possible another might’.

By naming his 1835 collection of essays and stories Arabesques, Gogol connected it to an aesthetic form at the intersection of architectural design and literature – not to mention music, art and dance – as well as a set of debates that had animated German Romanticism in the preceding decades. Taking Gogol's usage as inspiration, this chapter ranges across art, design, architecture, literature, philosophy and theory in order to argue for the value of the arabesque as a concept for reading the nineteenth-century city. In my readings, the arabesque functions partly as a metaphor which attracted increased attention in Europe and America at exactly the period modern cities were developing, and partly as a form with direct links to urban architecture and writing.

The arabesque's value as a conceptual framework for the modern city is due firstly to its persistent links with ‘movement and multiplicity’, as articulated in different ways by Kant, Goethe and Schlegel, and secondly to its position on the border between meaning, order and structure on the one hand, and meaninglessness, chaos and the unnatural on the other. At the risk of oversimplification, we might say that Western responses to the arabesque have tended to raise the question of whether it is purposive or non-purposive, and if purposive, whether this is in the Kantian sense of purposiveness which exists ‘apart from a purpose’. As Winfried Menninghaus observes, ‘without directly using the concept, Kant's Critique of Judgement (1790) formulates and elaborates a philosophy of the arabesque that then serves as a major touchstone for the reevaluation of the arabesque in early Romanticism’. Kant associates the arabesque with ‘free beauty’, which exemplifies purposiveness-without-a-purpose, when he writes that ‘designs à la grecque, foliage for framework or on wall-papers, etc., have no intrinsic meaning; they represent nothing – no object under a determinate concept – and are free beauties’. Free beauty does not conform to a particular purpose or structure, but instead activates the imagination (as opposed to pure or practical reason). It formally imitates nature, but does not reproduce it.