Operating House
Sterile Space and a Contaminated Mind

studio architecture of psychosomatics
2024

The concept of architecture and health has always been closely linked. Vitruvius, in his Ten Books on Architecture, detailed how to plan the Healthiness of a proposed site. In modernism, architects used white cubes, dry rooms, light, and circulating air as antidotes to urban diseases. After 1960s, architecture evolved beyond merely preventing disease as a medical device and began to offer psychological comfort. Various mobile vehicles, bubbles, and tents were invented, partly to escape toxic cities and anxiety disorders. The development of medicine and industry introduced an increasing array of new technologies and theories, such as rational circulation, operation manuals, negative pressure passageways, filtered air systems, seamless aseptic facade, and automatically triggered devices, while human knowledge and fear of uncleanliness also grew. This project stems from the tension between human knowledge of cleanliness and uncleanliness.

I attempt to place this tension in an extreme situation to observe changes in behavior patterns, spatial preference and mental states under such conditions. Thus, I created this fictional story about a surgeon who developed severe mysophobia - a fear of contamination - after a surgery. Refusing to return to his original home, he transformed an operating room into his living space, repurposing medical devices originally used for surgeries to serve daily functions like cooking, bathing, and sleeping. The story ends with a slightly absurd and humorous twist, hinting at the madness and irrationality that can lie behind extreme science and knowledge.

Geyrhalter, Nikolaus. Our Daily Bread. Brooklyn, NY: Icarus Films, 2005.

I met this surgeon while he was performing a lung operation on me. After learning I was an architect, he asked me questions about ventilation systems and medical equipment. He said he had developed mysophobia - a fear of contamination - after one particular surgery, and then he asked if I’d like to visit his room.

Strangely, we met again in the same hospital. He led me to the sub-sterile corridor. This was the passage connecting the back doors of all the operating rooms, so nurses and doctors could retrieve supplies without crossing the public hallways. One door remained sealed at all times. We put on gowns, masks, and shoe covers before he opened it. Inside the cleanroom, the walls were lined with air nozzles. Filtered air gently hit my face.

Past the second door, I was stunned by what I saw: It was a home designed as an operating room—or perhaps, an operating room designed as a home. I began to understand what he meant by mysophobia. To my right, there were trash chutes of various categories, connected directly to the hospital’s medical waste system. The doctor threw away his gloves and warned me not to touch the walls or handles. The doctor approached the scrubbing machine and placed his hands inside. Hygienic spray covered his hands and forearms. He kept his arms slightly raised, ensuring the water 􀏔lowed down toward his elbows to avoid contaminating the cleaned areas. After drying his hands, he put on a new pair of gloves and then walked toward the "kitchen" to show me his cooking process.

The kitchen counter was a surgical table. On the left were vacuum-packed, sterilized bread, vegetables, and ham. Using scissors, he cut open the packages and squeezed out the food. He carefully placed each piece at the center of the plate with small tweezers. Then, with surgical precision, he used a syringe to draw sauces from small glass jars and carefully injected them onto the food. Any dust or crumbs produced during the process were immediately suctioned into a suction machine.

On the other side of the room, a white curtain hung from a mechanical arm. Behind it was a surgical bed. On the left wall were some switches, while on the right, multiple layers of shelves adapted from a surgical boom were attached to the ceiling. Originally designed to hold medical equipment, light sources, and other surgical tools, these shelves now neatly stored books, drawers, and screens. I admired his monk-like discipline but also felt a bit uneasy imagining his routine. Every night, he must wrap himself completely, carefully positioning his legs on the bed before going to sleep.

I asked him if he truly felt safe in this new home. He didn’t answer the question directly but said: "Maybe I should make this room disposable, like a single-use surgical tool. Now It’s accumulating too many traces of life. Every time I leave, I can’t stop questioning whether I cleaned the door handle."

As the discussion turned to this topic, he seemed visibly unsettled. He continued, "Anyway, I invited you here to consult on my next set of modi􀏔ications." With that, he walked toward a machine in the corner. A series of colored pipes hung from the ceiling, supplying medical gases like oxygen, medical air, nitrous oxide, and waste gas disposal. These pipes had been repurposed into a personal operation system. Each outlet was 􀏔itted with masks and needles to deliver certain gases directly into his body. The doctor said the human body was inherently unclean, and external cleanliness was meaningless if internal uncleanliness remained. Experimenting with his system, he attempted to inject low concentrations of hydrogen peroxide mist and electrolyzed water aerosols into his mouth, nose, and stomach. He asked for my advice on modifying a surgical bed to 􀏔it the function for performing surgeries on himself. Looking at his setup, I felt an overwhelming sense of discomfort. So I quickly made up an excuse to leave.

Some time later, the news reported his death at the hospital. They mentioned no details on the cause of death. How could someone who believed in science die from such fears? The question lingered in my mind for a long time. So I decided to share this story with you.