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<!DOCTYPE html>
<html lang="en">
<head>
<meta charset="utf-8">
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<title>Treasures of Care</title>
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<body>
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<header>
<h1 id="changingText">Treasures of Care</h1>
<!-- <h6 id="subtitle"> An exploration of the significance of nurturing</h6> -->
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<ul>
<li><a href="#intro">Introduction</a></li>
<li>
<a href="#chapter-1">1 –The Roots</a>
<ul class="subchapters">
<li><a href="#subchapter-1.1">1.1 The 'Housewife'</a></li>
<li><a href="#subchapter-1.2">1.2 Labour of Love</a></li>
<li><a href="#subchapter-1.3">1.3 The Sauna</a></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#chapter-2">2 – The Branches</a>
<ul class="subchapters">
<li><a href="#subchapter-2.1">2.1 Love, Letters and Gifts</a></li>
<li><a href="#subchapter-2.2">2.2 Nurturing</a></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li>
<a href="#chapter-3">3 – The Compost</a>
<ul class="subchapters">
<li><a href="#subchapter-3.1">3.1 Hidden Gardens</a></li>
<li><a href="#subchapter-3.2">3.2 A Recipe Book</a></li>
</ul>
</li>
<li><a href="#epilogue">Conclusion</a></li>
<li><a href="#bibliography">Bibliography</a></li>
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<h2>Abstract</h2>
<p >
When everything is changing constantly, moving at lightning speed, there is often no time
and energy to care for others. It’s more convenient to send an SMS than a letter to someone.
And as we have isolated ourselves, our trust in strangers has shifted, care and intimacy
have shifted. This thesis explores how we could reshape our vision in finding small mundane
rituals that could help us bring more resilience to build community.
</p>
<p>
For this research, I explore the historical framework of care, provided by feminist thinkers
like Silvia Federici, alongside perspectives from feminist filmmakers such as Chantal
Akerman and Anna Hints. The artists’ works highlight the perception of care work as
invisible and traditionally categorized as women’s work to bring attention of this
significant issue. Yet, collectives such as the ‘Casco Art Institute & Annette Kraus’ are
suggesting approaches that encourage us to rethink our societal constructs, for instance by
engaging in collective exercises.
</p>
<p>
Building on this foundation, I look into psychological concepts like the gift economy, by
activist Charles Eisenstein and the author Lewis Hyde. Here, the notion of the gift emerges
as a powerful tool for fostering human connection and community. I delve into rituals that
nurture connection and intimacy, such as letter exchanges, which transcend individualism and
cultivate collectivity. My journey has been one of immersion, receiving care from gardeners,
letter writers, and artists alike, and absorbing the gifts they offer.
</p>
<p>
Within this framework, I uncover the profound significance of rituals. They serve as vessels
that transport care from individualism to community, forming a continuous cycle of giving
and receiving. Ultimately, they foster a sense of of belonging, creating tighter bonds
within our communities.
</p>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<div id="intro" class="chapter-section">
<h2>Introduction</h2>
<p> Going home to visit my grandparents is exciting, not only because I get
to see them, but
also because I get to visit my grandfather’s garden – a magical place filled with plants
and
flowers. This place has always been more than just a plot of land, it’s grows with time
and
is created from genuine care for a space. He assures its longevity by taking care of it
and
when I receive something my grandfather cultivated, it feels like receiving a treasure –
a
tangible result of his hard work.
</p>
<figure>
<div class="image-wrapper">
<a href="assets/images/GARDEN.png" target="_blank">
<img src="assets/images/GARDEN.png" alt="Garden">
</a>
</div>
<figcaption class="image-caption">
<b>Fig. 1</b> My Grandfather in his Garden, June 2022
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p>
Sometimes, I find myself engaged in this kind of work too and eventually I find similar
treasures along the way. For instance, when I went mushroom gathering in the forest with
my
roommate Khaled. We drove beyond the landscapes of the city, trading asphalt for wet
grass.
It was a cold, rainy day, and we were covered in warm sweaters, rain jackets and rubber
boots. I can still feel the raindrops on my cheek and the sound of the boots in the mud,
searching for fungi. Finding them was tough. Only after an hour, we stumbled across a
porcino mushroom<sup><a href="#" class="footnote-ref"
data-footnote-id="footnote1">⋆.ೃ࿔*:･</a></sup>
<span id="footnote1" class="footnote-content" style="display: none;">
<sup>⋆.ೃ࿔*:･</sup> One of the most widely consumed wild mushrooms that grows during
autumn
mostly in North America and Europe and is known for its rich earthy and nutty flavor.
</span>
and soon our basket was filled with them, creating an unspoken sense of bliss. Despite
being
cold and soaked and in the middle of nowhere, I felt warmth. When we got back home,
Khaled
prepared the mushrooms, being careful that none of them were toxic.
</p>
<figure>
<div class="image-wrapper">
<a href="assets/images/mushroom_02.png" target="_blank">
<img src="assets/images/mushroom_02.png" alt="Mushroom">
</a>
</div>
<figcaption class="image-caption">
<b>Fig. 2</b> While gathering mushrooms, we stumbled upon a beautiful coral-fungus (lat.:
Artomyces pyxidatus).
This fungi thrives during the summer months on decaying logs and branches. However,
the increasing use of dead wood for heating is putting its natural habitat at risk,
potentially endangering its existence.
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p>
Naturally, we look after our friends and family, but care and empathy for someone can
also
extend beyond social circles, to strangers. An example is the study “You Turn Me Cold”,
where researchers invited healthy individuals to watch videos of strangers putting their
hands into iced water.<a id="bibref-1" href="#reference1" class="bibliography"
data-bibliography-id="reference1">[1] </a>
In response to these images, the temperature of the participant’s
own hands dropped. This phenomenon is called “temperature contagion”. It underlines the
idea
that in social interactions, we respond to one another. Even if we see people we don’t
know
experiencing physical discomfort or shock, our bodies respond accordingly, just as they
would for someone close to us. The outcome of this study shows the depth of our empathy
for
strangers and the potential for fostering a more connected society.
</p>
<p>
Despite the power for connection, we might feel as if there is a loss in collectivity.
Especially since the pandemic, social distancing and wearing masks have contributed to
isolation and loneliness. All around us, there appears to be a shared anxiety that is
caused
by living in a world that seems uncaring.<a id="bibref-2" href="#reference2"
class="bibliography" data-bibliography-id="reference2">[2]</a> It is difficult to
achieve common goals
when
our self-interest grows and feeds into individualistic behavior. Our narcisstic mindsets
make us forget to listen to the needs of others.<a id="bibref-3" href="#reference3"
class="bibliography" data-bibliography-id="reference3">[3]</a> And instead of
drawing closer, we have
perfected the art of drifting apart. When standing so far apart, it is difficult to
achieve
common goals. This contributes to a lack of cooperation and social unrest. It will
ultimately lead to discrimination and conflict. To prevent us from drifting apart even
further, we should consider rethinking old habits and creating new communal rituals that
engage collective participation.
</p>
<p class="fade-out">
Charles Eisenstein (a degrowth activist<sup><a href="#" class="footnote-ref"
data-footnote-id="footnote2">ೄྀ࿐✦</a></sup>) illustrates this
<span id="footnote2" class="footnote-content" style="display: none;">
<sup>ೄྀ࿐✦</sup>Degrowth activism is a movement that promotes societies in which
social
and ecological well-being is prioritized over corporate profits, excessive
production
and consumption.
</span>approach by rebuilding human connections and learning practical skills in a life
less
dependent on money. He introduces
the principle of the ‘gift economy’, where a community exchanges assistance and
gratitude
without the use of money.<a id="bibref-4" href="#reference4" class="bibliography"
data-bibliography-id="reference4">[4]</a> In this system, generosity is seen as a
form
of wealth, so
“the more you give, the richer you are”. According to Eisenstein, money is intended to
be
the representation of society’s appreciation for an individual’s contributions, yet the
professions with high monetary compensations often don’t have significant contributions
to
society’s wellbeing.
</p>
<p>
Much like the plants in my grandfather’s garden, this piece of writing is nourished by
the
roots of care by investigating its history, it flourishes under the tender care of case
studies across fields of activism, psychology and design, and branches out in various
directions, for instance everyday-life rituals. All with the intention of how rituals of
giving and receiving can transcend individualism and foster connection and community.
</p>
<figure>
<div class="image-wrapper">
<a href="assets/images/drone.png" target="_blank">
<img src="assets/images/drone.png" alt="Drone">
</a>
</div>
<figcaption class="image-caption">
<b>Fig. 3</b> Captured by my father’s drone, this image shows my grandfather’s garden from
above.
My father loves to play around with ‘new’ gadgets, trying to impress my
grandparents.
They are rather concerned.
</figcaption>
</figure>
</div>
</div>
<div class="chapter-section">
<h2 id="chapter-1">The Roots</h2>
<h3 id="subchapter-1.1">The 'Housewife'</h3>
<p>
Already during childhood, girls are introduced early to caregiving roles and tasks. When I
was five, I had my own pretend kitchen with plastic food and kitchen utensils. Or when I
played with friends, we often walked around with buggys and baby dolls, taking turns with
feeding, playing and assuming the role of being “mothers”. When my mother, who had trained
to be a chef, became a housewife after my sister and I were born it became clear that being
a “mother” meant being a housewife.
</p>
<p>
The artist Chantal Akerman<sup><a href="#" class="footnote-ref"
data-footnote-id="footnote3">°•. ✿ .•°</a></sup>
<span id="footnote3" class="footnote-content" style="display: none;">
<sup>°•. ✿ .•°</sup>At age 25, Chantal Akerman created the film “Jeanne Dielman 23 Quai
Du Commerce 1080 Bruxelles” for which she was renowned an influential avant-garde
feminist filmmakers.<a id="bibref-20" href="#reference20" class="bibliography"
data-bibliography-id="reference4">[20]</a>
</span>, whose mother was a housewife as well, beautifully portrays a
housewife’s everyday life in her film “Jeanne Dielman 23 Quai Du Commerce 1080 Bruxelles”.<a
id="bibref-5" href="#reference5" class="bibliography"
data-bibliography-id="reference5">[5]</a> The
3-hour long film depicts the daily routines of a housewife in real-time. Watching
Jeanne Dielman peel potatoes, take a bath and cooking soup becomes boring and lonely. By
keeping the shots long and uncut, the film captures the slow and monotous aspects of
domestic work. This film emphasizes the mundane, offering perhaps the most authentic
depiction of the housewife’s experience.
</p>
<figure>
<div class="image-wrapper">
<a href="https://archive.org/details/jeanne-dielman-23-quai-du-commerce-1080-bruxelles-akerman"
target="_blank">
<img src="assets/images/Jeanne-Dielman_blue.png" alt="Jeanne Dielman">
</a>
</div>
<figcaption class="image-caption">
<b>Fig. 4</b> Still from the film: Jeanne Dielman: 23, Quai Du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles by Chantal
Akerman.
</figcaption>
</figure>
<h3 id="subchapter-1.2">Labour of Love</h3>
<p>
Housework is boring, exhausting, and often seen as a labour of love. In “Wages Against
Housework”, feminist theorist Silvia Federici explains that people often don’t recognize
housework as actual work because it is seen as a way to show your love and appreciation.<a
id="bibref-6" href="#reference6" class="bibliography"
data-bibliography-id="reference6">[6]</a>
This setup is idealized and reinforced through the capitalist patriarchy, portraying the
housewife as a support for the male worker in their physical, emotional and sexual needs.
Where everyone is led to believe that women’s domestic duties are simply a natural and
fulfilling part of life. In fact, it is the “pillar, the foundation” of all other work,
because it enables us to stay productive. Most men think about marriage after securing their
first job, not just because they can afford it, but also because being able to go home to
someone who takes care of them is the only way to stay sane after a long day of work.
</p>
<figure>
<div class="image-wrapper">
<a href="https://www.plutobooks.com/blog/wages-housework-campaign-history/"
target="_blank">
<img src="assets/images/wages_for_housework_blue.png" alt="A Wages for Housework march">
</a>
</div>
<figcaption class="image-caption">
<b>Fig. 5</b> A Wages for Housework march in 1977. Photograph by Bettye Lane.
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p>
The collective Casco Team & Annette Kraus demonstrates the potential for executing care
tasks collectively in order to emphasize equality, fairness and mutual recognition. Their
project “Unlearning Exercises”, presents a series of practical exercises that aim to nurture
a more inclusive and collective environment.<a id="bibref-7" href="#reference7"
class="bibliography" data-bibliography-id="reference7">[7]</a> The activities range from
mundane chores
such as cleaning together to address issues such as fair pay. Moreover, the work gives an
insight into the power of communal learning. Through active participation in these
exercises, they engage in discussions, pose questions, and share personal narratives. By
coming together to clean every Thursday, the group transforms the routine task into a
meaningful ritual, challenging traditional norms and actively seeking societal change within
their community.
</p>
<figure>
<div class="image-wrapper">
<a href="https://casco.art/resource/unlearningexercises/" target="_blank">
<img src="assets/images/casco_blue.png" alt="Casco Art Institute">
</a>
</div>
<figcaption class="image-caption">
<b>Fig. 6</b> Casco Art Institute, Unlearning Exercise 3: Cleaning Together
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p>
After 14 years of marriage, my parents divorced. My mother returned to work as a chef again,
because her domestic labor didn’t bring money. I’ve always admired her profession. Yet, to
this day, I hear her advice: “Never become a chef, it’s thankless.” and “People don’t see
you.” The hard work in the kitchen often goes unnoticed, kitchen atmospheres are intense and
the pay is low. We live in a society that judges an individual’s value based on how much
money they make, what they consume and the potential profit from their job. This judgment
also reinforces the idea of caregiving work as work that is either minimal or lacking in
skill. The reality is that cooking, cleaning and caring are jobs with the lowest wages and
the most instability in capitalist societies. The undervaluation and underpayment of
domestic labour contribute to lower wages in other sectors.<a id="bibref-8"
href="#reference8" class="bibliography" data-bibliography-id="reference8">[8]</a> In
situations where the
primary caregiver executes demanding and time-consuming work, but remains unpaid, the labour
does not have value because it cannot be exploited for profit.<a id="bibref-9"
href="#reference9" class="bibliography" data-bibliography-id="reference9">[9]</a> In
today’s society, not
much seems to have value if it cannot be monetized. Perhaps the most valuable thing anyone
can do in a capitalist society is to do nothing at all. Or to visit the sauna.
</p>
<h3 id="subchapter-1.3">The Sauna</h3>
<p>
In the documentary film “Smoke Sauna Sisterhood” by Anna Hints, women gather in a hot sauna
in the Estonian forests.<a id="bibref-10" href="#reference10" class="bibliography"
data-bibliography-id="reference10">[10]</a> They engage in rituals or share personal
stories with each
other without fear of judgment. They create a profound connection with each other by showing
care for each other’s emotional burdens. With their connection they celebrate womanhood and
care. One of the stories that stuck with me was when one woman’s family didn’t ask her about
her trip when she came home after a long time. To ask about how she had been doing while she
was away meant showing care, and care is seen as a ‘weakness’. They didn’t want to show the
vulnerability to her.
</p>
<p>
In our society, there is a common belief that being emotional and openly expressing feelings
is synonymous with weakness. From childhood on, many have been told phrases such as “don’t
cry, be strong”, implying that showing vulnerability is being weak. Especially boys are
taught that “boys don’t cry”, because showing themselves hurt or sad is not masculine. They
internalize these messages in order to fit in and gain validation from their male peers and
authority figures.<a id="bibref-3" href="#reference3" class="bibliography"
data-bibliography-id="reference3">[3]</a> As a result, not only do we have the constant
pressure of proving
ourselves the strong and confident person that society wants us to be, but we also learn to
hide our feelings from a young age
</p>
<p>
The anecdote from the sauna illustrates that the family lacks expressions of care.
Nonetheless,
the rituals of the sauna give the woman the space to be vulnerable and share her experience,
free from fear of judgment. Learning to openly express her emotions, she discovered that in
fact, showing care is not a weakness, but it fostered a sense of community.
</p>
<figure>
<div class="image-wrapper">
<a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt23640230/" target="_blank" class="sticky-image">
<img src="assets/images/smoke_sauna_blue.png" alt="Smoke Sauna Sisterhood" width="100%"
height="auto">
</a>
</div>
<figcaption class="image-caption">
<b>Fig. 7</b> Still from Smoke Sauna Sisterhood. A film by Anna Hints.
</figcaption>
</figure>
</div>
<div class="chapter-section">
<h2 id="chapter-2">The Branches</h2>
<h3 id="subchapter-2.1">Love, Letters and Gifts</h3>
<p>
Finding a handwritten letter on my doorstep never fails to excite me. Probably because in
today’s world of fast social media messaging, it has become a rarity <sup><a href="#"
class="footnote-ref" data-footnote-id="footnote4">◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡</a></sup>
<span id="footnote4" class="footnote-content" style="display: none;">
<sup>◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡</sup>Since 2014, European postal traffic has significantly decreased of
more than 50%. From 66 billion letters sent out in 2014, to only 33 billion letters in
2020. Consequently, the number of postal letter boxes across Europe has decreased by 11%
during the same period.<a id="bibref-21" href="#reference21" class="bibliography"
data-bibliography-id="reference21">[21]</a>
</span> – a treasure even.
There is just not enough time and energy to sit down for the creation of a handwritten
letter. Once I hold one in my hand, I am reminded of the personal touch that sets it apart
from the digital exchanges we are so used to. There is more to a handwritten letter than
just pure text; it comes with scribbles, crossed-out words, and coffee stains. Human marks
that make it a special and unique piece.
</p>
<p>
Yearning for analogue exchange remains important in my family. After my uncle came out to
his parents, his father stopped recognizing him as his son. Instead of confronting him
directly, my uncle sent him a letter. Handwritten letters can be a slower but more
thoughtful way to communicate, especially in difficult situations such as arguments or
misunderstandings. They allow us to understand deeper expressions of regret, concern, and
forgiveness.
</p>
<p>
But it’s not only about conveying information, but also expressing genuine concern through
carefully crafted messages. With everyone in the family scattered across different cities
(and
countries), sending letters has become a way to stay connected. An intimate act that brings
closeness to the physical distance between us.
</p>
<figure>
<div class="image-wrapper">
<a href="assets/images/letter_grandmother.png" target="_blank" class="sticky-image">
<img src="assets/images/letter_grandmother.png" alt="Letter Grandmother"
width="100%" height="auto">
</a>
</div>
<figcaption class="image-caption">
<b>Fig. 8</b> Letter from my grandmother after I moved to the Netherlands, 2020.
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p>
Ever since I was a child, I’ve observed packages coming in and out of the house. Every now
and then a big package would stand on the kitchen table, and we would all gather around.
They were packages from my grandmother. My mother received magazines, jam (or other food)
and a letter from her mother. My sister and I got candy or sometimes practical items such as
socks and underwear. About a week later, it would be my mother’s turn to send a package back
to her. Since she left home at 16, moving from a village in East Germany to Frankfurt and
then to Luxembourg, my grandmother and her have been apart.
Exchanging items has evolved from a way to stay connected into a ritual. In the end, the
contents in the packages (even if sentimental) remain mere objects. The significance lies in
the actual act of continuous giving and receiving. Similar to a gift, where one gives and
gets something in return, the objects have to stay in constant motion.<a id="bibref-11"
href="#reference11" class="bibliography" data-bibliography-id="referenc11">[11]</a> My
mother didn’t
hoard the jam; rather, she graciously shared it with us, so it can be enjoyed together.
</p>
<p>
In contrast to the traditional approach, where care work often flowed from one person, to
another, we observe that this exchange is mututal between two equal parties. It’s dynamic of
both giving and receiving, shifting away from one-sided giving. Consequently, it was on my
mother to send a package.
</p>
<p>
Initiating this practice of the gifting ritual is more comfortable within friendships or
family. However, as mentioned earlier, I am also intrigued by the power of care, empathy,
and connection towards strangers. In “The Gift” by Lewis Hyde, the author illustrates how
even simple mundane gestures, like sharing candy, offering a cigarette, or exchanging brief
words of encouragement, can be seen as a gift because it creates a connection.<a
id="bibref-11" href="#reference11" class="bibliography"
data-bibliography-id="referenc11">[11]</a> This
connection is a bond that distinguishes the act of giving and receiving from mere
transactions<sup><a href="#" class="footnote-ref" data-footnote-id="footnote5">.·:*¨
¨*:·.</a></sup>
<span id="footnote5" class="footnote-content" style="display: none;">
<sup>.·:*¨ ¨*:·.</sup>Transactions refer to exchanges involving paid services or bought
objects.
</span> and creates profound connection.
</p>
<p>
The theme of connection and forming this bond is related to a project I’m working on
parallel to my research. This project plays on the boundaries of anonymity and intimacy,
where I ask strangers questions I don’t know the answer to. I am reaching out to people by
placing envelopes in diverse locations: outdoor mini libraries, park benches, tram stops,
etc. Each envelope is unique and comes with a question, a pen and paper. Its’s an invitation
for strangers to engage with one of the many wonders that occupy my thoughts. This journey
of going through my own uncertainties while connecting with others blurs the line between
strangers and acquaintances. I also hope that it starts conversations, connections, and
unexpected discoveries.
</p>
<figure>
<div class="image-wrapper">
<a href="assets/images/letter_tram.png" target="_blank" class="sticky-image">
<img src="assets/images/letter_tram.png" alt="Letter Tram"
width="100%" height="auto">
</a>
</div>
<figcaption class="image-caption">
<b>Fig. 9</b> Envelope with a question in the tram, 2024.
</figcaption>
</figure>
<h3 id="subchapter-2.2">Nurturing</h3>
<p>
When we care for others, we have a genuine desire to help each other grow and thrive.
Similar to how Erich Fromm defines love, who says it’s “the will to extend one’s self for
the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth”.<a id="bibref-12"
href="#reference12" class="bibliography" data-bibliography-id="referenc12">[12]</a>
When we nurture each other, we feed each other. This basic human act holds more meaning than
just mere survival. When we nurture each other, we take part in generously sharing
resources, whether it’s food, time, attention, skills or money. Ultimately, by engaging in
these acts, we connect with each other. Here is an example to illustrate it further:
</p>
<p>
One of the ways in which the video creator Brad Lancaster looks for human connection is by
eating together with strangers.<a id="bibref-13" href="#reference13" class="bibliography"
data-bibliography-id="referenc13">[13]</a> Food is often the center point for gathering
that
focuses on building community because it sparks discussions that delve into topics of
nourishment, sustainability, economy, ritual and history.<a id="bibref-14"
href="#reference14" class="bibliography" data-bibliography-id="referenc14">[14]</a> In
one of his videos, him and
his friend knock on people’s doors in Compton in hope of finding people for whom they could
cook dinner for. Despite Compton’s reputation for its infamously high crime rate and one of
the most dangerous places in Los Angeles, they find a family willing to take part in the
social experiment. Because of how big the family was, they went out on a whim and curiously
managed to get the help of Andre Rush, the personal chef of the White House who served four
administrations. His willingness to fly in and cook for a family of strangers underlines his
profound dedication to his profession and his belief in the power of human connection. He
explains that since having served in the military, cooking became his coping tool, like
therapy. He continues by saying that “food is that one universal thing that just brings
everyone together” without domination, race, color, it “goes throughout the universe”. Him
being there and cooking dinner for a family of strangers is his way of giving back. In this
exchange, nourishment flows both ways. When we invest generosity into a gift, it grows and
feeds us in return. The gift embodies a spirit which thrives through circulation.<a
id="bibref-11" href="#reference11" class="bibliography"
data-bibliography-id="referenc11">[11]</a>
</p>
<figure>
<div class="image-wrapper">
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zdVEBeJrvcs" target="_blank"
class="sticky-image">
<img src="assets/images/dinner.png" alt="Dinner" width="100%" height="auto">
</a>
</div>
<figcaption class="image-caption">
<b>Fig. 10</b> Chef Rush in the Kitchen.
</figcaption>
</figure>
<figure>
<div class="image-wrapper">
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zdVEBeJrvcs" target="_blank"
class="sticky-image">
<img src="assets/images/dinner 02.png" alt="Dinner02>" width="100%" height="auto">
</a>
</div>
<figcaption class="image-caption">
<b>Fig. 11</b> The family eating the dinner cooked by Chef Rush.
</figcaption>
</figure>
</div>
<div class="chapter-section">
<h2 id="chapter-3">The Compost</h2>
<h3 id="subchapter-3.1">Hidden Gardens</h3>
<p>
I grew up amidst nature, but when I moved from a small village in Luxembourg to the
Hague, I
noticed a shift in landscape. Where there were fields and forests, there are now
concrete
walls and gravel roads. The city of the Hague has more inhabitants than my entire home
country.<sup><a href="#" class="footnote-ref" data-footnote-id="footnote6">➶⁎̩͙ ⁑̩͙̩͙
⁂̩̩͙͙</a></sup>
<span id="footnote6" class="footnote-content" style="display: none;">
<sup>➶⁎̩͙ ⁑̩͙̩͙ ⁂̩̩͙͙</sup> As of 2024, the population of the Hague is 720.085, whereas
Luxembourg’s population stands at 661.594.
</span> Compared to my hometown, everything felt gigantic. Everything felt intriguing.
When
the pace of the city started to feel overwhelming, I discovered hidden green spaces –
community gardens<sup><a href="#" class="footnote-ref"
data-footnote-id="footnote7">⊱⚘¨༺❀༻¨⚘⊰</a></sup>
<span id="footnote7" class="footnote-content" style="display: none;">
<sup>⊱⚘¨༺❀༻¨⚘⊰</sup> A community garden is a plot of land that is divided between a
group of people either individually or collectively, usually in urban areas.
</span> – that reminded me of the tranquility I’ve missed. Participation in
these
spaces is what creates the community of the garden. The garden can only thrive from
collaborative group effort. Only people who care for each other and their environment
can
create such a space by working with their hands, mind and senses.
</p>
<p>
The first community garden I visited was Spinozahof , known as the beautiful oasis in
the
center of the Hague. Spinozahof consists of multiple plots that individuals can rent.
Among
various other activities, once a week people come together to work individually in their
own
plots or collectively in the garden. On a Saturday, I helped with pruning and
composting.
The process intrigued me, because compost transforms from trash to treasure to trash to
treasure,… Compost embodies the cycle of life, from decomposed organic matter to
nourishment
for plants, returning to earth to restart the cycle.<a id="bibref-15" href="#reference15"
class="bibliography" data-bibliography-id="referenc15">[15]</a>
</p>
<p>
While the cycle of composting appears less significant in its scale, recognizing its
interconnectedness with broader phenomena, allows us to actively participate in it. In
ecology, for instance, the human is an integral part of nature, rather than its
dominator.
This perspective is deeply rooted in the Maori, the indigenous tribes of New Zealand,
who
take part in a spiritual exchange with nature.<a id="bibref-16" href="#reference16"
class="bibliography" data-bibliography-id="referenc16">[16]</a> In Maori tradition,
birds hunted
from
the forests are ceremonically cooked over sacred stones by priests, who then eat some
and
give the rest to the hunters. Afterwards the priests return a talisman, typically a
stone,
to the forest. This ritual is known as ‘mauri’ which symbolizes gratitude and
acknowledges
the birds as a gift. Within this cycle exists a symbolic exchange of care: the forest
provides for hunters, who provide for priests, who give back to the forest. This
exchange of
giving and receiving underscores the interconnectedness and mutual respect between the
human
and the natural environment.
</p>
<h3 id="subchapter-3.2">A recipe book</h3>
<p>
Thinking further about food and the environment, I got involved in the Foodsharing
initiative, founded by Valentin Thurn in 2012 in Germany. This initiative combats the
global
challenge of food waste. Around 1.3 billion tons of food are wasted each year, which is
approximately one third of the world’s food.<a id="bibref-17" href="#reference17"
class="bibliography" data-bibliography-id="referenc17">[17]</a> This initiative doesn’t
only help
saving
food from being thrown away, being involved in such projects contributes to positive
change
and builds a community. My roommates and I had a routine of heading to Delft every
Saturday
to save food. Within the foodsharing group of Delft, we could sign up for one out of
three
supermarkets to collect food that was no longer considered sellable, which we then
delivered
to a community fridge. A shared fridge where everyone can take what they need. In 2021,
I
hosted an event in KABK, distributing some of the saved food to peers. Later, I gathered
the
recipes that my peers sent me of the meal they cooked with the ‘wasted’ food. In the
end,
rather than the recipe book itself, the true outcome were the establishment of personal
connections. The shared spirit of giving and receiving united everyone in a
collaborative
project.
</p>
<figure>
<div class="image-wrapper">
<a href="assets/images/Recipe_Book.png" target="_blank" class="sticky-image">
<img src="assets/images/Recipe_Book.png" alt="Recipe Book" width="100%"
height="auto">
</a>
</div>
<figcaption class="image-caption">
<b>Fig. 12</b> Scan from a recipe contribution in my recipe book.
</figcaption>
</figure>
</div>
<div class="chapter-section">
<div>
<h2 id="epilogue">Conclusion</h2>
<p>
Through the exploration of the multiple facets of care, it becomes evident that care is
not
only a fundamental aspect of human connection, it’s a complex concept that is deeply
intertwined in power dynamics, societal norms and ethical considerations. The spectrum
of
care encompasses nurturing, responsibility, and vulnerability.
</p>
<p>
In conclusion, my journey has deepened my understanding of nurturing relationships
within my
practice. By recognizing the roots of care, we become aware of its perceptions and the
importance of fostering equality and fairness in our environment. The example of the
Casco
Art Institute illustrates how we can rethink old habits through collective efforts.
Being
open and vulnerable is not a weakness, but it shows care and honesty and participating
in
some seemingly simple acts can cultivate deep bonds and create a sense of belonging. In
an
increasingly fragmented world, care can be woven through by daily rituals and acts of
kindness. We have observed the various scales of the giving and receiving cycle, from
small-scale composting initiatives to larger rituals, creating community. Engaging in
the
ritual of exchanging letters back and forth fosters care and connection in our daily
lives,
because we need to actively seek the time and energy to do so. These rituals become
gifts,
constantly kept in motion, like the garden of my grandfather. It has the potential to
evolve, extend, transform, offering endless possibilities for growth.
</p>
</div>
</div>
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<div class="chapter-section">
<h2>Bibliography</h2>
<div id="bibliography-container">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<h3>Reading</h3>
</div>
<ul>
<li id="reference1">[1] Cooper, Ella A et al. “You turn me cold: evidence for
temperature
contagion.” <i>PloS one</i> vol. 9,12. 31 Dec. 2014,
<a href="https://journals.plos.org/plosone/article?id=10.1371/journal.pone.0116126"
target="_blank">https://journals.plos.org/plosone/article?id=10.1371/journal.pone.0116126</a>.
<a href="#bibref-1">↩︎</a>
</li>
<li id="reference2">[2] Collective, The Care. <i>The Care Manifesto: The Politics of
Interdependence.</i> Verso, 2021.
<a href="#bibref-2">
↩︎
</a>
</li>
<li id="reference3">[3] hooks, bell. <i>All about Love: New Visions.</i> William Morrow,
an
Imprint of
HarperCollins Publishers, 2022.
<a href="#bibref-3">
↩︎
</a>
</li>
<li id="reference4">[4] “Charles Eisenstein: ‘In a Gift Economy the More You Give, the
Richer
You Are.’” <i>YouTube,</i> YouTube, 30 July 2012,
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6S1egXWYwXo"
target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6S1egXWYwXo</a>. Accessed 11
Jan.
<a href="#bibref-4">
↩︎
</a>
</li>
<li id="reference5">
[5] Akerman, Chantal, director. <i>Jeanne Dielman : 23, Quai Du Commerce, 1080
Bruxelles.</i> New
Yorker
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<a href="https://archive.org/details/jeanne-dielman-23-quai-du-commerce-1080-bruxelles-akerman"
target="_blank">https://archive.org/details/jeanne-dielman-23-quai-du-commerce-1080-bruxelles-akerman</a>.
Accessed 29 Jan. 2024.
<a href="#bibref-5">
↩︎
</a>
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<a href="#bibref-6">
↩︎
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<li id="reference7">
[7] Choi, Binna, et al. <i>Unlearning Exercises: Art Organizations as Sites for
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Casco
Art Institute, 2018.
<a href="#bibref-7">
↩︎
</a>
</li>
<li id="reference8">
[8] Johnson, Rebecca May. <i>Small Fires: An Epic in the Kitchen.</i> Pushkin
Press, 2023.
<a href="#bibref-8">
↩︎
</a>
</li>
<li id="reference9">
[9] Tempest, Kae. <i>On Connection.</i> Faber & Faber, 2022.
<a href="#bibref-9">
↩︎
</a>
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<li id="reference10">
[10] Hints, Anna, director. <i>Smoke Sauna Sisterhood.</i> 2023. Produced by
Marianne Ostrat.
<a href="#bibref-10">
↩︎
</a>
</li>
<li id="reference11">
[11] Hyde, Lewis. <i>The Gift: How the Creative Spirit Transforms the World.</i>