MAYDAY

BOOK OF WOMEN by Tao Aimin

Contributed By:

BOOK OF WOMEN NO. 1 (2006)

Chinese calligraphy on used wooden washboards, jute cord
The artist has collected thousands of washboards over the years, recording the stories and faces of the rural women whose hands wore these boards down through the recursive repetition of monotonous labor. Each board is distinct. The patterns of wear on the boards over decades of daily use are testimonies to the passage of time, the passage of the lives spent, day in and day out serving hearth and home. For many of the women who used these boards, they are among the only records left of their lives. There are often no photographs, and without literacy, there can be no diaries or letters to attest to the lives of these women. Relegated to what Hannah Arendt followed ancient Greeks in calling the oikos — the household sphere of private, bodily necessity, which they contrasted with public life, thought, action and freedom — it might seem as if these women were as invisible as their life stories. Yet the material culture of manual labor has endured for millennia, and these washboards bear witness to the infinitesimal, and yet, profound and sustaining ways in which this mundane, quotidian labor that occupied most of their existences, inscribed their beings into the world.
BOOK OF WOMEN NO. 2 (2006)

Chinese calligraphy on used wooden washboards, jute cord

Return to table of contents for PRACTICES, POWER & THE PUBLIC SPHERE

Return to table of contents for Issue 2 Winter 2010

Filed Under: Art

Further Reading

Okichize (Battle)
by Jim Genia

The trick when it comes to industrial sabotage is to understand just enough of the
mechanism to know where the line exists between damage and catastrophe. You want to cost the oil company money, not create a natural disaster.

Descent into Madness (in D Minor)
by Daniel Brennan

Descent into Madness (in D Minor) I’ve been doing more cocaine these days to keep busy but this poem is not about me. Oh, you know who I saw the other day? It was that boy, the one with a metronome for a tongue, who we’ve both spread open like warm bread  though we’d never […]

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