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Discovering, after all these years, the fine art of housework
In 1972, as America protested the Vietnam War and Helen Reddy's "I Am Woman" played endlessly on the radio, 21 students were embarking on a mission to put together a feminist art project. What they called Womanhouse was an installation piece, set in an actual condemned house in Los Angeles, that explored the ways that women are trapped by the home. There was the "Nurturant Kitchen," with egglike nipples applied to the ceiling and walls; the "Menstruation Bathroom" with bloodied tampons; and the "Bridal Staircase," featuring a new bride in her new home/prison.
This house has haunted me. I was raised on Betty Friedan-style feminism. Growing up, I wanted nothing to do with domesticity, motherhood, marriage, or anything else that reeked of traditional womanhood.
My dream was to become a famous bohemian like the writer Anais Nin or the feminist artist Miriam Schapiro.
My attitude remained unchallenged throughout my college years. I was a women's studies major at UCLA in the early '90s, and my professors, like the artists who created Womanhouse, perceived the home and its accompanying activities as something that women needed to free themselves from. Smart, enlightened women had little time for silly things like cooking, sewing, knitting, or cleaning. And it all made sense to me. After college, bad-ass and ambitious, I hopped from job to job, working as a filmmaker, a video editor, and a Web producer. My focus was becoming successful. As a result, I never learned how to save money or create a nice home.
Then, at age 28, I crashed. Sure, I had built a "career" for myself, but I also had a huge debt, a...