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You wouldn’t think that a line of washing could be really annoying. However, when I saw Stephen Spielberg’s film version of The Colour Purple I remember feeling really aggrieved about a row of perfectly laundered, wrinkle free, pale peach, freshly starched, thick cotton sheets swinging gorgeously outside one of the slave cabins. To me Spielberg’s aestheticised image blithely ignored the absolute impossibility of living in such conditions and producing such perfect laundry. You see, there has always been something about a clean line of washing that gladdens my heart. I think that clothes stretched out side by side make visible that most invisible of tasks: laundry. To see Spielberg indulge in a beautiful image without showing any of the labour involved in getting those sheets on the line: the scrubbing, the dousing, the boiling, the wringing, the mangling really got my goat. So much of the work involved in running a home is completely invisible – only noticeable when it isn’t done and barely remarked upon when it is. This isn’t just a female grievance, men feel it too – pushing supermarket trolleys around overloaded aisles knowing that same time next week they’ll be doing it all again. But there is a satisfaction in hanging out a freshly laundered row of clothes – even if it is only a small blip between tomorrow’s dirty washing and a big pile of ironing. There’s the slight stiffness when you take it in at the end of the day, and the smell of the newly unfolding Spring creased in its folds. But I also like seeing washing on lines because it can tell you something about a family or a household. There’s a new baby in that house – see the tiny babygrows – or three skulking teenagers – see the rows of baggy scuffed jeans – or a dedicated sportsman – see the mismatched running socks. A line of washing can be revealing and not only in the quality of your underwear. Every item of clothing has been worn by a real warm body. Each garment has been chosen with love and care. If it hadn’t been loved it wouldn’t have been worn and if it hadn’t been worn it wouldn’t have been washed. That cardigan with the baggy pockets is sought out after a long and tiring day at work. That sparkly top makes a teenager feel special. That ragged square is a toddler’s blankie. Clothes on a washing line mean something. They are connected to the people in the household, they have a life, a meaning. Clothes in a second-hand shop are not the same. They are connected to people of course but no longer in a meaningful way. They are discarded, outgrown, out of fashion. Instead they are symbols of a life lived elsewhere, a life which has moved on or ceased to be. The clothes on the washing line are only at the bottom of the garden – not so far – but the clothes in a second hand shop are rootless, disconnected from the person who once picked them out, tried them on, and imagined them in relation to their wardrobe. These clothes have now slipped out of reach, have moved on to another life, are living somewhere else now. The French artist Christian Boltanski has created powerful statements about loss and absence through clothes. He came to Dublin once and trawled through second hand shops picking out clothes and shoes and toys that he felt had once had meaning or presence in people’s lives. He covered the entire floor of the Douglas Hyde Gallery with these lost and found items prompting one critic to remark cynically that the exhibition was a pile of old rubbish. But what it was instead was a very powerful statement of being human, of the things we collect and wear that try and express our sense of individuality, of being ourselves. All of the items that he used had once been meaningful, had been loved, had been integrated into real lives. Whether they now were lost or discarded or no longer useful was unclear but the whole sense of human richness and fullness of life was there in these sad, relinquished, empty items: old handbags, high heels, good overcoats all hugging to themselves stories of lives, homes, families; previous existences. What it brought most powerfully to mind were those piles of shoes that can be seen in concentration camps which are, to me, the most moving way of making real those thousands of lives who were themselves abandoned and discarded. Shoes mould themselves to people’s feet, they cannot be passed on from owner to owner, once fitted and worn they belong to one person and carry that person’s history with them. I once asked a religious mentor what does it mean in the Bible when it says Pray without Ceasing? How can you dedicate time to prayer and a spiritual life when you’re dealing with gridlock and shopping and laundry? His answer was profound and simple as the best answers always are. Laundry is prayer, he said, sweeping the floor is meditation, washing the dishes is the ceaseless mantra that you seek. The spiritual life is merely the enchantment of everyday life. So the next time you find yourself pulling wet washing out of the machine think of what you are doing as meditation. Because if you have lots of laundry in your life then you have children, partners, husbands, wives, or parents who belong to that dirty washing, people whose lives are full and free enough to dirty their clothes, to live in their own skins. Elaine Sisson Broadcasted RTE Radio 1 on Sunday Miscellany
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