There is no work more important than caring, no act more valuable than upholding the dignity of another human being. I think of this imaginary library often – of the art that might be made were the weight of care on women not so heavy.Īnd yet I’m mindful here not to use the word burden, because it’s the unacknowledged nature of caregiving that is the burden, not the work itself. For every book by a woman that’s published, there are others that idle in the realm of possibility. Caregiving is frequently invisible, but its consequences radiate out: career breaks, deferred ambitions, missed opportunities. Not only women, not all women, and not all the time – but many women, mostly women, and often. This is the context in which women make art. There is no work more important than caring, no act more valuable than upholding the dignity of another human being

The idea that all three are simultaneously possible is the ultimate illusion women are expected to sustain. Towards the end of my father’s life, when he entered our troubled aged care system, I felt the exigencies of art give way more and more to the exigencies of caring.Īmong my female friends who are writers and artists, I don’t know a single one who hasn’t felt, at some point, the impossibility of fulfilling the duty to care while maintaining artistic momentum and financial security. The drumbeat of specialist appointments, hospital visits, and minor and major emergencies was constant across the years. My father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s the year I turned 18. Like most women I know, caregiving has been woven throughout the fabric of my working life.

Ordinary world ddr