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Happy to share?

If you read the newspapers, you might get the idea that ‘sharing’ consumption goods – houses, cars, tools… – is a new phenomenon.

They call it the ‘sharing economy’, or ‘collaborative consumption’, and it is apparently all the rage.

The collaborative consumption that takes the limelight, however, is that part which is mediated by commercial services brokering taxi fares, for instance, or holiday homes: companies for whom sharing is just the next business model, with the profits coming from skimming the turn-over of the providers of the goods.

Yet of course, a lot of informal sharing goes on as well, both paid and unpaid. It is hard to measure, but it seems fair to assume that, with the Crisis, this has taken on large proportions since 2008. Only think of all the families who have lost their houses and had to move back in with their (grand)parents.

For the people actually involved in sharing their resources, this is not another business model. For many, it is an economic necessity. Living in someone else’s house, driving their car, wearing second-hand clothes, washing them in the launderette: they are all different ways of saving money by sharing.

Yet sharing does not just happen. People have to do it: it is a capacity, a skill.

A shared laundry basin on the Mediterranean coast, c. 1900. Carlo Brogi, 'Sanremo.  Popolane al lavatojo', cat. no. 12182.

A shared laundry basin near the Mediterranean, c. 1900. Studio Carlo Brogi.

We all know that in order to do some successful sharing, we need the right mindset. We have to trust the people we are sharing with and not be too attached to the things we are sharing. Pleasant sharing is the result of a certain mentality: a mentality that makes it normal, even enjoyable to share things. If you do not own this mentality, to share is hardship. If you do own it, you may in fact prefer to share a lot of things in your life, not (just) from a financial need, but out of conviction, idealism, or simply because that is how you were brought up.

With the world’s cities growing ever more crowded, we have good reasons for increasing the amount of skillful and glad sharing that we do.

You may think this a very hard task; since some people are simply better at sharing than others –

– or because some cultures are simply better at it than other cultures. It is true that the degree to which people are happy to share their homes, their food, their clothes or their cars, varies dramatically between cultures. Those living around the European North Sea, for example, have historically been relatively bad at sharing – or relatively good at doing things on their own, if you want to put it that way (a lot of people do: they see history as a Robinson Crusoe epos). These Europeans organised their lives in nuclear families, each inhabiting a separate home rather than the extended-family farm or homestead common in many other parts of the world. This was related to the fact that many did not work for a family business, but earned an independent wage as employee elsewhere for much of their life.

The good news that historians can bring, however, is that people have a huge capacity to change their attitudes.

We may at this very moment be entering an era when sharing becomes more appreciated again. In western Europe and the USA, car ownership for example has been going down for a while now. (Second-hand furniture has also become more desirable, but that may have a purely economic cause.) Most Europeans are yet far removed from wanting to share everything they own, but the point is that the desirability of sharing can change over time. A culture can rapidly alternate between embracing the sharing of certain goods and rejecting it. In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, similar shifts in preferences for sharing have taken place. Together with current developments, they form a long-term wave movement. (This is what I will be arguing at a conference of the Royal Geographic Society in Exeter this September.)

But in your own lifetime, too, you have probably experienced fluctuations in how used you are to sharing. You may have worked happily in a noisy classroom as a kid, but perhaps prefer to work in a quiet office of your own nowadays. You may also have grown more averse to sharing a bed, a dressing-room, or a coffee mug than when you were little.

Yet because the historical evidence also shows developments that have moved in the opposite direction, towards more ‘collaborative consumption’, we may be optimistic about our potential for these changes, too.

Now let’s think of ways to turn this potential into reality. How can we make sharing easier for the many of us for whom it is not?

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Are we done with ironing?

Time for the follow-up post to ‘Ironing board will soon be obsolete‘!

Do you iron?

We were lying by the pool, so my friend’s question was an unexpected one. She herself is a non-ironer, and she seemed to be gauging whether this makes her a bad person. Luckily, I could set her at ease: I do not iron my laundry either.

And your mother?

Well yes, the works: from cardigans to underpants.

While the recently released UN report ‘Progress of the World’s Women’ draws attention to the burden of unpaid care and domestic work that falls on women globally, it also allows us to ponder how the more affluent parts of the world deal with these tasks.

Clearly, women in wealthy countries are no stranger to the difficulty of juggling different duties within the limited hours of the day. However, I found that the question my friend asked me by the poolside signals a remarkable change that we see with today’s young people. This generation of emancipating women are using their time in a new manner.

In the second half of the nineteenth century and the early years of the twentieth, housewives set towering standards when it came to the proper maintenance of furniture, floors, windows, linen and clothes.

To give an early example from a British housekeepers’ manual (pp. 6-7): every day, the blankets but also the sheets had to be taken from all the beds, and mattresses had to be

turned over daily. Feather-beds must be turned over and shaken in all directions.

The bed should then be completely remade,

and drawing your hand along the lower edge of the pillows, so that their form may be seen, the bed is made.

Before making a bed, wash your hands, and take care that your apron is not dirty.

Although these efforts may have yielded some health benefits, they were primarily aimed at enhancing a family’s respectability. Next to this, they may have helped mothers who were caring for only a small number of children, but who had nevertheless been excluded from the work force (it was a matter of pride for couples when the wife did not ‘have to’ work), to give purpose to their life: to feel needed.

In the 1970s and 80s, second-wave feminists were already different wives from their mothers. No longer did they just take care of home and family: they turned to paid work in massive numbers.

Still, they had been raised with their mothers’ domestic ideals: a perfectly neat interior, especially when receiving guests, the children always scrubbed and combed… Beside their paid jobs, wives and mothers continued to spend twice as many hours on home and care as their husbands, both in the UK and in many other countries (see the Multinational Time Use Study database). This ‘second shift’ of work is what led to the feelings of stress and inadequacy many women know so well.

In other words, the baby boomers were stuck with a historically high bench-mark in all matters domestic. In spite of a substantial growth in paid labour participation, which now absorbed much of women’s time, the baby boomers have never really rid themselves of this standard.

This is a thing which we do see happening with their children. Many of the young women who are starting a household today, and their partners, too, are taking on a new mentality. Of course, women’s time scarcity can also be alleviated by men’s greater involvement in the home, and by hiring professional help. Partly, this is also what is happening. However, the other obvious option young people see, is to simply lower their expectations.

A photo by the USA Department of Agriculture. Extension Service: 'Washington, D.C. Dusting mits with which dusting can be done with both hands develops speed and efficiency. Dusting mit or dust cloth in the pocket, dusting as you clean, eliminates travel time.'

A photo taken by the USA Department of Agriculture, Extension Service, around the 1940s: ‘Washington, D.C. Dusting mits with which dusting can be done with both hands develops speed and efficiency. Dusting mit or dust cloth in the pocket, dusting as you clean, eliminates travel time.’ (Currently in the National Archives and Records Administration, College Park. Photo provided on Wikimedia Commons.) Did the federal government occupy itself with the efficient cleanliness of American homes? I’m no expert on this, but it would seem so.

Hoovering, mopping, replacing linen and making beds: everything happens less often in this generation. Except for a formal shirt now and then, none of my friends ever iron as far as I can tell. Even folding is occasionally abandoned. (A weekly dusting has already been history for a while: in my work as a professional housekeeper, the different priorities of different generations of clients have become abundantly clear.)

Yes, guests like to sleep on clean sheets, but that does not mean the entire house must shine. Kids don’t like to worry about their clothes in the first place. And who knows what will happen to the pressing iron? It might do nicely enough as home decoration next to the washboard and the spinning wheel.

If these first indications persist – if women are grasping this opportunity to turn their back on perfectionism, and men are growing just as modest in their expectations – then, perhaps, we can look forward to a little less pressure in our stressful lives. Which is why the best place imaginable to start a discussion about housekeeping, was indeed the poolside.

This column has also been published in the University of Sheffield’s History Matters and, in a different version and focusing on the Dutch instead of the British situation, in NRC Handelsblad on the occasion of International Women’s Day 2015.

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Greetings from a [insert weather] place!

It’s a holiday cliche.

‘We’re having a great time here and the weather is nice.’ Or: ‘rain every day since we arrived.’ Or: ‘even the locals complain about the heat.’

On our postcards home, we write about the weather.

And not just we. As I examine letters from a century or more ago for my work, I find the same preoccupations, the same themes, the same wordings.

Here is a postcard from 1905. It was sent by a father who had to be away from home for work and regularly reported to his daughter about his activities.

Postcard, in the collection of the Library of Congress.

Postcard from a father to his daughter, sent in 1905, now in the collection of the Library of Congress.

On 14 August, he wrote:

The weather much cooler to day.

The same kind of texts can be found on postcards and in letters and diaries throughout the western world.

Now many scholars agree that such statements form a mere convention. Talk about the weather, as talk about hotels or sight-seeing, consists of cliches, slavishly repeated from existing models. Travel writing, in their opinion, consists largely of stereotypes and set topics that do not tell you much about what travellers really thought or felt.

I beg to differ. When we talk about the weather, usually it actually means something to us.

Yes, the weather is conventional in the sense that it is quite a common theme to broach in a letter or on a postcard. Yet we are not obliged to mention it. Nor are we obliged to always describe it in the same terms. If it were just a mark of good manners to say something like, for instance, ‘we are seeing some bright days here’, in the same sense as you would say ‘thank you’ when receiving a gift, that would be a full-blown convention, a formula. But except on those Gobi treks which your grandpa treats you to on your birthday, you would be perfectly free to write to him that where you are staying, the weather is miserable.

And if the weather is miserable, this really matters to you! If it’s raining all the time, this may make you cold or depressed. If it is 40 degrees Celsius in the shade, you may feel equally awful. The weather can prevent you from visiting certain places and from participating in a lot of enjoyable holiday activities.

So conventions come on different levels, in varying degrees. The weather happens to be a thing that affects us a lot, which is why, as a topic, it has become a convention in travel writing, while in its content, it remains highly specific and meaningful to the people involved.

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Homo shopis

Something funny happens when authorities try to abstract pictograms from human beings.

We all know that a figure with full legs means: man.

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And a figure like a double ice lolly: woman. (Her arms are slightly shorter and hopelessly pushed aside by the crinolined dress she is wearing.)

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This is how we are supposed to recognize which WC to use. But what happens if we do not need to make a choice according to which gender we belong to? You get this:

200px-Pictograms-nps-trailhead-2.svgPictograms-nps-misc-watch_for_falling_ice.svg200px-Pictograms-nps-land-exercise-fitness-2.svgPictograms-nps-land-archery.svg200px-Pictograms-nps-litter_receptacle-2.svgPictograms-nps-misc-slipper_steps.svg

 

 

 

Clearly, these pictures address everyone. Every human being is expected to be careful on the stairs, throw their rubbish in a bin, and so on. Even if you belong to that half of humanity who should feel that she becomes that ice lolly whenever she needs to pee, forget about that identity in these ‘neutral’ or ‘general’ cases.

Ok, so let us assume women and men have learnt this lesson – the lesson that in toilets, a figure with long legs means ‘man’, but that everywhere else, a figure with long legs means: ‘everyone’. And then they are confronted with this:

Own photo (all other pictograms from Wikimedia commons)

The photo was taken next to a Dutch train station and points the way to the buses, trains and city centre. But who represents the city centre? The woman who had to go to the loo! (Is that her powder bag she is holding?)

So according to the complicated logic we had just taken great pains to learn, the city centre is a non-neutral place where only women are welcome. Men will be shooed from this intimate place. Maybe hit with make-up bags.

Of course the implicit message is that if you recognize yourself in the specifically female figure, you must be happy to be directed towards you favourite pastime, which is shopping. And if you consider yourself a man and still venture to the place with the powder bags, your self-respect will suffer. On the other hand, to make a journey by bus or train would be a transgressive activity for a woman to engage in. (Or perhaps the advice is for both train spotters and lovers of women to turn right, and bring their binoculars with them?)

It is as if the institutions placing these signs think of their customers as belonging to several distinct species:

The skirted figure is the Homo hoogcatharinensis, well-known in the Netherlands and a subspecies of the more generally occuring Homo mercatus. This species can apparently only be found in its female form. It is suspected that they morph into the more usual male form of the other Homo species when not engaged in their primary hunting and gathering activities, when they can be found hiking, shooting arrows, and throwing little cubes in bins.

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We willen geen ambachtelijke poffertjes

Bij de consumentenbond is ophef ontstaan over het gebruik van de term ‘ambachtelijk’. Blijkbaar voeren allerlei producten in supermarkten die benaming onterecht.

Het product dat als voorbeeld wordt genoemd: ‘Oma’s poffertjes’, uit een Nederlandse supermarktketen.  ‘Ambachtelijke poffertjes’.

‘We zijn benieuwd naar deze oma’, schrijft de Consumentenbond. Nou ben ik best bereid iets over haar te vertellen.

photo originally published on http://www.consumentenbond.nl/campagnes/kletsplaatjes/Oma%27s-poffertjes-van-Lidl/

foto oorspronkelijk gepubliceerd op website Consumentenbond

De oma van de poffertjes komt waarschijnlijk uit de tweede helft van de negentiende eeuw of het begin van de twintigste, aan haar kapje, jurk en schort te zien. Ongetwijfeld zal zij haar poffertjes met de hand hebben gebakken (tenzij ze ze van de kermis haalde, want had ze wel een poffertjesplaat in huis?). Tot zover ambachtelijk dus. Maar wat stopte ze erin?

Het graan en de melk die we op de verpakking van de poffertjes zien, zal deze oma niet zelf hebben verbouwd (kippen hield ze misschien wel, voor de eieren). Tarwebloem en boekweitmeel kwamen vaak van de meelfabriek, zeker voor wie in de stad woonde. Melk kwam van melkveebedrijven – poffertjes werden trouwens vaak met water in plaats van melk en zonder eieren gemaakt. Gist kwam bijvoorbeeld uit de brouwerij, een grootschalig bedrijf, en later uit gespecialiseeerde fabrieken. Boter, tot slot, werd vaak in fabrieken gemaakt, waarbij ook kleurstof niet werd geschuwd, terwijl veel huishoudens zich tot het goedkopere margarine wendden: ook al niet ambachtelijk.

De vraag rijst of consumenten ooit van een product als supermarktpoffertjes zouden verwachten dat het met de hand gemaakt is en op dezelfde manier als zij het thuis zouden doen. Zij snappen heus wel dat je voor handgebakken poffertjes naar de kermis moet. Op de verpakking staat ook niet ‘met de hand gemaakt’, dus gelogen wordt er niet. ‘Ambachtelijk’ blijft ondertussen een betrekkelijk vaag begrip, en de commercie zal het wel nooit zonder zulke vage kwalificaties zullen stellen (‘heerlijk’, ‘de beste’, ‘authentiek’…).

En als er blijkbaar vraag is naar het veel goedkopere product dat de supermarkt verkoopt, ondanks dat dat minder lekker is, dan moeten winkelbezoekers dat misschien zelf weten? Want het is alleen door schaalvergroting dat zo veel mensen tegenwoordig de keuze hebben uit zo veel verschillende etenswaar. Als alles nog ambachtelijk gebeurde, nam u vanochtend waarschijnlijk geen suiker in uw koffie (en las u geen krant), at u geen koekje bij de thee, dronk u geen pilsje na het werk en at u geen varkenslapje.

Het ambacht past niet in ons huidige voedingspatroon; kleinschaligheid niet bij de maat van de wereldbevolking. De consument lijdt daar niet direct onder; hooguit de poffertjesbakker.

Zie ook Geschiedenis van de techniek in Nederland, deel I,  de poffertjesfamiliegeschiedenis van Henk Werk en WikiDelft.

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Change of minds: our drug ‘habit’ besieged from two sides at once

Read the papers, watch the news, and you witness a monumental change in the way we deal with psychoactive food stuffs.

This change manifests itself in two different ways.

On the one hand, the call for the legalization of cannabis is getting louder and louder. It forms part of a worldwide campaign to turn the ‘war on drugs’ into more effective means of breaking the power of drug barons and preventing and alleviating addiction, which also asks governments to consider the regulation of other types of recreational drug. This call is greatly aided by scientific studies that sort out the beneficial effects of drug use from the harmful effects, the more dangerous substances from the less dangerous, and the more sensible ways of consuming them from the more stupid ways. This is only possible because doing this kind of study in the first place is slowly gaining acceptance. In Britain for example, to publicly discuss consumption of hash has until recently been taboo. A show on Channel 4, based on research by Val Curran of UCL, shows this no longer to be the case now. (Coincidentally or not, at the time I visited their website a frozen-vegetable producer was advertising on it with the slogan ‘Stir your senses’.) In other countries, this process of acceptance has been going on for longer. In Uruguay, where both at-home and state-controlled production are now legal, it has even taken some definitive steps.

Interestingly, the same inquiring spirit has had quite the opposite effect on attitudes towards alcohol and nicotine, and to some extent even on caffeine. We are starting to get away from some of the deeply ingrained views on substances that made particularly alcohol a commonly accepted drug –  in many settings even an almost obligatory drug. Still, it firmly belongs in the category of ‘hard drugs’, in the sense that it induces physical dependence. The same applies to tobacco. This knowledge has been available for a long time (it is what I learnt at school), but state policies have only started to act on it more consistently over the past few years. In the Netherlands for instance, buying alcohol and drinking it in public have first been made illegal under age 16, and now up to age 18. Even though criminalisation is not necessarily the best remedy against the risks substances pose (this is the whole point of the cannabis story), at least these new policies give out a clear message that to drink and to smoke is no longer the norm, let alone a rule.

Our consumption habits are shifting. What we drink and smoke and sniff as a matter of course, is being challenged in the same way as the things we are not supposed to use. A knowledge that many people already possessed from experience, is now being formalized and improved by researchers. This article in the Lancet neatly summarizes current professional opinion about a range of substances and their harmfulness to both individuals and society. It shows how uninformed the legislation in most countries has been up till now. But, and this is the second important step, these researchers’ messages are now being listened to by politicians. Perhaps the generation of young Europeans that began (re)discovering certain drugs in the 1960s – drugs such as LSD and hash which have since been banned in most countries – are by now in a position to reassess this ban: as scientists, as intellectuals, as legislators. I am therefore optimistic (an unfashionable thing to be among historians) that this growing formal knowledge about the actual dangers of specific drugs will, during the coming years, continue to help reform law.

On a lighter note, this supermarket chain still ignores the dangers of two traditionally accepted drugs, in particular when combined:

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If drinking gives you a headache, this may be the most effective way of selling painkillers in a supermarket.

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Photos taken recently in British retail chain.

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A real traveller?

Ever since the eighteenth century or thereabouts, travellers have carried an attitude commonly called ‘anti-tourism’.

Writers characterise others as Tourists: they are lazy, superficial, conventional. Tourists go on package tours; Tourists do not speak the local language; and all Tourists really want is a snapshot of themselves with the Great, Berlin or Hadrian’s Wall, which are as interchangeable to Tourists as the motel beds they sleep in.

It is not always acknowledged that this Tourist is a construction by these writers, an image, a personage. In real life, holiday travellers’ experiences are a great deal more complex.

Still, the image is an attractive one. It allows us to style ourselves different travellers: Real Travellers.

Charles Baudelaire, photographed by Etienne Carjat, 1863 (from Neue Zürcher Zeitung article).

Charles Baudelaire, photographed by Etienne Carjat, 1863 (from an article in the Neue Zürcher Zeitung).

Charles Baudelaire is one of those writers who shaped our image of the Real Traveller. This is from his poem ‘Le voyage’:

Mais les vrais voyageurs sont ceux-là seuls qui partent
Pour partir; coeurs légers, semblables aux ballons,
De leur fatalité jamais ils ne s’écartent,
Et, sans savoir pourquoi, disent toujours: Allons!

In the translation by Geoffrey Wagner:

But the true travelers are they who depart
For departing’s sake; with hearts light as balloons,
They never swerve from their destinies,
Saying continuously, without knowing why: “Let us go on!”

Many of us will know the feeling this fragment evokes. The lightness it brings to leave one place, full of muddy memories and a thousand duties, and exchange it for another, fresh one. It’s a splendid feeling.

But Baudelaire does something besides describing this feeling: he sets those who feel it (‘vrais voyageurs’) apart from the rest. They are the wanderers, the wayfarers, for whom the journey is more important than the destination. Apart from the fact that this is a poetic distinction that does not exist in real life – often, the destination and the journey are both important, and the same people who have happy, ‘balloony’ feelings can also experience homesickness and anxiety – Baudelaire also chooses to set these people above the rest: those who are ‘fated’ to roam are more properly travellers than those who are actually going some place.

This tallies nicely with the rest of Baudelaire’s oeuvre, in which the protagonists are never able to find their place in the world, never satisfied, never at peace with their environment. Baudelaire himself, too, does not seem to have been very able to go somewhere and stay away for long.

It is flattering for Baudelaire as well as for ourselves to think of ourselves as the Real Travellers, especially when the activity mostly consists of dreaming of other places from the comfort of our own room, with little or no contact with the actual people and cultures we dream about.

But should we praise ourselves for our restlessness? To arrive is also an art. It is a fine romantic notion never to settle, but to depart on journeys, real or literary, has never been a particularly difficult task for the rich and male.

The hard part is staying in the new place: making do and adjusting one’s expectations and prejudices. It seems that Baudelaire did not find this pursuit worth much effort. But however wonderful some of the lines he wrote, we should not let ourselves be swept away by the authority exerted by romantic poetry. Perhaps, those who go somewhere and make an effort, however imperfect, to adapt to the new place – the Nigerian trader in Guangzhou, the Sudanese refugee in Amsterdam, the Mexican housekeeper in Los Angeles – perhaps they are the real travellers.

The standard work on anti-tourism is James Buzard, The Beaten Track: European Tourism, Literature, and the Ways to Culture, 1800-1918 (Oxford, 1993). Geoffrey Wagner’s translations appeared in Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire (New York, 1974). My biographical impressions were largely shaped by the chapter on Baudelaire in Alain de Botton’s The Art of Travel and Francis Scarfe’s introduction to his selected verse.