The Pressure to Make Domestic Work Invisible
The extra burden of making it appear that labor didn't happen
This week, we’re talking about the extra labor of making household work invisible. On Thursday, I’ll share highlights from your conversation about pornography and presuming it abusive.
My family moved in late August, which means making all-new choices about where everything will live. We do our bookshelves by genre, and I’ve added a new non-fiction section “the narrowness of the ‘normal’ body” tucked in between the math books and the broader “history of science/medicine” section. (It is a lot of fun to have people try to guess the genre divisions by surveying the bookshelves).
The kitchen is its own challenge, constrained by which cabinets can be locked, and what we’re willing to let the toddler drag out to play with (or where we’re willing to let her store herself).
I tend to take a Taylorized approach to kitchen arrangements. I get excited when I move a pot and gain the ability to make coffee by standing still and pivoting—everything within arm’s reach. I may even have hummed “Think of the Time I Save” from Pajama Game while I celebrated the new, efficient arrangement.
And, as much as possible, I leave counters clear. Everything that sits out, I look at with suspicion, expecting it to justify the landscape it takes up. It’s partially a habit of cooking in New York apartments, where counter space was scarce enough that all dough rolling had to take place on the dining table. But it’s partially an impulse well summed up in Meg Conley’s recent essay “By Design,” sparked by a NYT piece on the trend for camouflaged fridges.
I doubt the very wealthy are asking for tiny freezers and hidden refrigerators because they are on the side of Big Bottled Beverage and Big Rot. Probably they just think it looks nice. Designers like Shannon Wolcack agree. She owns a design firm in West Hollywood where she works with clients like Hillary Duff. Why does the kitchen need to host its own persistent optical illusion? Wolcack says, “Kitchens used to be concealed. It had a door. That was where you had all your appliances. It was like the work space. And now, kitchens are more of a lifestyle. You want to make it pretty and seamless.”
And I guess this is where my brain finally exploded. Heaven forbid the kitchen feel like a work space. The work of the home isn’t really work, didn’t you know? It’s a lifestyle! It’s pretty and seamless!
That’s Meg’s jumping-off point for a long, thoughtful essay that examines the history of hiding kitchen work and the people who do it. But it was that opener that kept sticking with me.
What does a work space look like when the work is valued?
I’m curious about your own kitchens or home offices or simply the way you arrange your bundles of diapers and wipes for changes.
Are there parts of your home that feel like a work space and wear that identity proudly?
What work do you feel the strongest impulse to make invisible?
I never want a scruffy house to be a barrier to opening my door to others—I tend to feel like the desire to have work tools entirely away is an internal impulse. I want the space to make deliberate choices about what to work on.
It’s a similar approach as in the Montessori classroom that Beatrice attends—everything has a space to live, so that the tables are clear to focus on your chosen work. But everything is out and visible, so you can consider what skill you want to explore.
We know she’s come home with a strong sense of tidiness and order—she commanded one of our grown-up friends back into his chair when he began hovering during dinner. “Back! Back!” She knew where he belonged, and the following day was still happy to point to his chair and tell us he had been there.
Order can be a way of treating things with respect—I anthropomorphize and put pots back in their homes rather than away. But it’s a straightjacket if the goal is to make tools and labor invisible and embarrassing to be caught out at.
I love the phrase “scruffy hospitality”!
I've been reading Charlotte Mason on atmosphere lately: what she says about cultivating a life-giving atmosphere for our children seems to go for our guests as well. The most important atmosphere comes from us—the kids (and guests) don't care if we have a spotless, Instagrammable house if we're in a foul or anxious mood. And after that, there's a balance between being in a space that feels lived in as well as that which is appropriately tidy for the occasion. It's understood that a certain level of tidiness shouldn't prevent us from having over last-minute guests, or welcoming in the neighbors when they drop in. I suppose I try to go for an orderly homeyness: orderly so that things can be done—meals, conversations, chores done together, clean-up accompanied by music or continued chat—rather than sterility or the appearance of sterility. (I think the primary time I truly feel pressure to have things spotless is when my mother or mother-in-law comes to visit!)
I find it helpful to recall what feels welcoming to me when I'm a guest: I appreciate feeling the character of a particular home (as well as signs of life—herbs drying, bread rising, laundry waiting to be folded), and I appreciate feeling that things have their place, so that I can more easily join in the work of the house while I'm there. When I'm visiting my in-laws, some of the best conversations happen as we're making food or cleaning up together.
That balance is what we go for in our own home: making things tidy enough, and helping our kids understand that tidying is one way we can love others and welcome them into our home. (That our kids understand that under-tidiness oughtn't prevent us from hosting is demonstrated by how many times they make their own invitations for spontaneous future gatherings: “You can come to our house whenever you want!”)
A few years ago I was talking with a friend about minimalist design trends and hospitality, and they said something that has stuck with me ever since. They had started hosting a weekly Bible study, and every week they scrambled to make their home spotless and tidy before people walked in. A few weeks in, they realized that the stress and the effort involved weren't sustainable, and so they simply accepted the fact that people would see the mess of ordinary life and tried to make peace with that. That evening ended up being one of the best gatherings they had: everyone was visibly more relaxed and comfortable, and the conversation had more depth and vulnerability. I try to remember this when I feel the urge to hide the evidence of my own domestic work, or when I am reluctant to invite people over because our home is untidy. I don't want those things to be a barrier to hospitality—especially when they could actually invigorate it! I want to be hospitable, and I want that hospitality to be an act of inviting people into our daily life, rather than setting aside those ordinary things of life to "host" or "entertain" others temporarily.