No kitchen ever belongs to me
Photographs and text: Maike Hemmers Graphic design: Yin Yin Wong Editorial: Clementine Edwards Funded by Woonstad Rotterdam Edition: Digital copy For limited printed artist edition or inquiries contact: firstname.lastname@example.org All translations by the author
but I can still inhabit it with myself (whatever that is)
This publication follows a research residency at De Kiefhoek Museum House, Rotterdam alongside Ian Clewe in the summer of 2019. It constitutes one part of two: the second publication is Affording Modernism — Dwelling and Abstraction by Ian Clewe. In line with Bernadette Mayer’s 1984 concept of the Utopian Copyright, this publication has no copyright. All rights remain unreserved and free. Every part of it may be reproduced by any means, without the permission of the author. While a reference to the original edition is not mandatory, it is appreciated. My thanks go to the inhabitants of De Kiefhoek residential area, to everyone who visited the museum apartment, and most of all to the children of De Kiefhoek who inspired much of my work with their play. This includes Vienne, Jady, Odaamim, Anani, Burak, Ricardo, Deagan, Julien, Macien and Leba, who drew with me inside the museum apartment as well as outside on the street. Thank you to Woonstad Rotterdam for funding and supporting the research period, specifically to Bianca Toll for all communication and support; to Ian Clewe for working alongside me; to Clementine Edwards, Yin Yin Wong and Maria Smit for their work and support; to Cihad Caner for the key tip on shutter speed; and to Het Nieuwe Instituut archive and its employees for all their help with the research. Writing takes a group effort and I also want to thank Tommi Hillsee, Stephan Blumenschein, Rabea Ridlhammer, larose and Valentina Curandi for their comments and references, and all the researchers and writers alongside whom I wrote the text.
I work in kitchens, and they work on me. I get grounded and exhausted there. All space contains a potential for everything. I am touched by all of the outside, but I am turning my inside outside too, because anything I hold inside of me spills ... Architecture is a cultural norm that produces structures that are meant to be followed — the streets of a city, the compositions of rooms inside a house — and thereby controls the conditions that define, limit and influence a body. Housing plans set spaces, and lay out how domestic life is meant to be lived. In western society the nuclear family is the propagated household form one generally aspires to. This is spatially represented in the housing plans of single family houses. The plans reinforce the gendered division of labour, the kitchen traditionally being the domain of housewives, for example. The spatial representation of domestic labour has a direct and historical relation to industrial labour, to the cost-calculations and conditions it is performed under — who works where and what conditions need to be provided to the workers so that they may produce more profit. Certainly other forms of architecture exist, but as the embodiment of society’s historic and current standards, western architecture is inherently patriarchal, classist, racist, capitalist, able-bodied. This essay aims to unpack some of the conditions under which the social housing complex De Kiefhoek was built. To look at the history of a building offers an understanding of contemporary living conditions we so often accept as natural, guiding us to reflect on the kind of life we live in the paths laid by urban planning and architecture. But aligning with a love ethic, I practice connection rather than division and ask: What does an architecture of love look like? bell hooks’ book All About Love has been among the voices that offered a guide for my thinking around relations of affect that happen in community. hooks writes: ‘Domination cannot exist in any social situation where a love ethic prevails.’ (2000, 98) A love ethic speaks for a right to autonomy, freedom and well-being — a point of view that is dismissed by a patriarchal and racist society that reinforces the power difference between bodies. (2000) In the space between built walls I find love and potential to expand with. I reflect and follow the paths already laid out, loose track and then walk beside them.
The Rotterdam municipal department for social housing, Gemeentelijke Woningdienst, was established in 1915 with the aim to build affordable housing for the poorest working-class families in the city, and to overcome housing shortages and slum-like living conditions. Jacobus Johannes Pieter Oud worked as an architect at Woningdienst from 1918 to 1933, was head architect for parts of this period, and worked on the project of De Kiefhoek in 1925. Oud’s primary architectural plans had been rejected by the municipality based on financial considerations, after which J.J.P. Oud, as he was commonly known, adapted the plans. Construction took place between 1928 and 1930, delayed by conflict with the municipality and problems with the builders. In 1990, the Kiefhoek houses were demolished and rebuilt. Several factors, like sinking foundations, made rebuilding a better option than renovating the existing structure. At this time one of the neighbourhood’s apartments was restored to its original state and designated a museum house. Here, I spend a month working alongside Ian Clewe. Modernist architecture ideology wanted to bring sun, light and air into the homes of people. This was formally integrated in the aesthetics of buildings as well as in a moral demand for cleanliness, discipline and control. Concerning the household, rationalisation meant to systematically rethink domestic labour, aligning it, so to speak, with industrial labour practices for ‘efficiency, productivity, and austerity’. (Nolan, 2016, 72) At De Kiefhoek, rationalisation is a measure imposed upon the inhabitants through formal decisions made in the architectural plans. The houses and the surrounding public space are rationalised to enforce appropriate behaviour and to educate the working-class families towards what was deemed to be proper. The first architectural plans J.J.P. Oud made for De Kiefhoek were rejected by the municipality, who regarded some of its features an unnecessary luxury for the working class. (Cusveller, 1990) Oud, however, favoured his initial architectural plans, and wished for them to be used for further applications of the houses. (Oud, 1932) While having to fulfil the demand to build for big families, there was a ‘constant insistence to economize’ according to the director of Woningdienst at the time, M.J.I. De Jonge van Ellemeet. (1931, 103) De Jonge van Ellemeet negatively evaluated the tight cost calculation of the government towards Oud’s architectural plans. The subsequent economisation of the government disadvantaged the apartments by reducing the quality of material and the space available to the families. Rejected features of the initial plans include a bathroom or a shower (in the final houses only a toilet was present), a washstand on the first level with the bedrooms, a built-in ironing board, a service hatch connecting the kitchen to the living room and a letter box at the entrance. In my opinion, some of these amenities would have provided more comfort, especially to the housewife labouring inside the home. Most weighty of the rejections is the decision to take away sanitary facilities, as it denied any
improvement in domestic hygiene and thus health. Access to a proper bathing routine inside the home would have had a real impact on the people who were supposedly being educated by living in these new houses. While many of Oud’s and De Jonge van Ellemeet’s decisions seem to derive from their assumptions about what they called ‘the social weak’, both expressed concern about the municipality’s decision to exclude washing facilities from the houses. As was common during the time, the De Kiefhoek compound instead included a water distillery where people could buy hot water to bring home for washing, laundry and personal hygiene.
I am sitting on the ground at the playground opposite the museum house and I notice the neighbourhood children observing me. They seem immediately curious about my presence and I am not sure why. The streets in De Kiefhoek often seem deserted to me, people pass through and linger less. The two playgrounds of the compound open up the space for me, it is where people stay and where I see life and affection. A child waves to me from the top of the climbing frame but when I smile in acknowledgment, he ducks and hides. When he reappears I wave back and feel shy myself. He makes loud sounds to catch my attention but then he and another girl laugh and hide. But the boy emerges again and waves as if to reassure me. He is transmitting a gentleness that seems unusual to me for a boy of his age, around six. The boy keeps making contact without coming closer. The children walk away and he jumps up and down and waves again from a distance. I wave back, uncertain about what step to take. Now he comes running over, jumping on the swing close by, looking at me. I start talking and he bubbles up with everything that’s been contained inside him so far. He very freely shares his thoughts with me and finally comes to stand next to me to show me a silver tooth in the back of his mouth. His friend returns and they swing on the swings together while talking to me, telling me about which candy they are allowed and not allowed to eat. They lay with their stomachs on the swings and spin around and around, until the chain of the swing is turned so much that it captures their bodies inside and then they spin out again while screaming briefly and softly. I explain what I am doing in the neighbourhood, how I’m working at De Kiefhoek museum house, and that I am sitting in the playground to think and write. They ask me what I am writing about. I tell them that I write about this very encounter. It amuses them. I later propose to show them the inside of the museum apartment. They are not impressed by it. They know the houses as they are inhabited now, and this one doesn’t look so different to an ordinary home; it just appears old to them, I guess. The museum house becomes more significant when I tell them that it is actually famous and that it represents a very old house. My drawings are lying on the table and they instantly ask if they can also draw. They think that it is an activity for everyone, and one to do together. Maybe it is also something they can relate to the most; they too make drawings. They are the first children who draw alongside me.
They draw a McDonald’s, simple abstract forms, hearts and handbags. They judge whether their own drawings are good or not, while I proclaim that all of them are done really well, as I feel I am supposed to do with children. In the end they gift me all of their drawings, but the girl takes her favourite. Without a doubt, new modernist social housing brought about an improvement in living conditions for Rotterdam residents. The working-class families for which the housing was built came from dire living conditions and De Kiefhoek as well as other housing projects facilitated a change in scale, efficiency and health. However, modernist housing represented ‘an improved, albeit rather bleak, alternative rather than a utopian vision.’ (Nolan, 2016, 81) The previous living conditions had been desperate, but the bourgeoise feminists, political leaders and housing reformers who proposed rationalised and modern housekeeping did not act with innocent or carefree intentions either. The overcrowded, slum-like conditions of shared housing prevalent for many working-class people was a worry for legislators at the beginning of the twentieth century. The feminist designer collective Matrix points to the relation of architectural plans towards the oppression of women, using the design of urban houses in Britain between the early nineteenth century and mid-twentieth century as an example. (1984) According to the collective, the most striking theme of those plans is ‘the privatization of family life’, which relates directly to the creation of the nuclear family. (1984, 55) The houses of the working-class had previously accommodated quarters for labour production as well as for living. People who were not biologically related lived together. Both labour production as well as the non-blood relations were now meant to be separated from the family unit. Privacy between different families was an aim for (sexual) decency. This development aligns with the architectural plans as well as the intentions for modesty and education coming from the legislator and the architect for the new houses of De Kiefhoek. The houses were built to replace unacceptable living conditions but ‘a-social people couldn’t be authorised here, but one can find “social-weak” that though thanks to the home inspection (of course a woman), develop in general quite nicely in the direction of decent inhabitants.’ (De Jonge van Ellemeet, 1931, 106) It wasn’t just the municipality’s aim to provide poor people with decent living but also to ‘better them’, to educate them to standards of the time that were deemed proper and civilised. The home inspection, which was mandatory for residents at De Kiefhoek, played a similar role to that of a contemporary social worker, and is a position still employed by building cooperatives today. The main advocates for the rationalisation of the domestic — the industry, bourgeois feminists and social democrat union leaders — promoted the simplifying and streamlining of domestic labour so that women could serve their own family better. (Nolan, 2016) From there, they believed, women could increase their participation and service for the public realm, too. Inside the house the kitchen
became an isolated chamber, which worked to position it as the centre of the housewife’s work. It was placed separately from other living functions and designed to be a small space to delineate the kitchen as a place of labour. Eating in the kitchen was seen as a working-class habit and something to be prevented by scaling them down: ‘A big kitchen is unwanted, because people will permanently live there.’ (Oud, no date, no pagination) The kitchen of De Kiefhoek museum apartment is very small with little storage space. A stone counter which stands on thin metal legs encloses one side of the room. It has a built-in rectangular stone sink with a copper drain and water tap. Of all the rooms in the house, it is the kitchen that I am aesthetically most drawn to but feel least welcome in. The kitchen counter is free-standing without cupboards because they ‘so often tend to become hidden trash cans’. (De Jonge van Ellemeet, 1931, 103) In an article written by J.J.P. Oud called ‘Housewives and Architecture’ that he published during the construction period of De Kiefhoek, he states that communication between everyday life and architecture is essential, and ‘the foundation for a new unity, for “style”.’ (1927, 46) Oud urges architects to listen to the demands of housewives, as they are the ones who maintain the domestic sphere, and he compliments the housewives of Stuttgart, who remain nonetheless unnamed, for sharing guidelines for an architect to orientate to in relation to the planned housing estate Weissenhofsiedlung. The guidelines consist of twenty-seven different points specifying how to simplify domestic labour. The guidelines’ scope ranges from particular rooms, like the kitchen and the cellar, to particular details, like the garbage disposal or window handles. The authors were most likely (upper-)middle-class housewives, as indicated by the wide range of rooms that are covered in the document, one of them being the maid’s room. In his article, Oud advises Dutch housewives to come up with their own guidelines. Notable here is the clear division of labour, in the end it falls to the Dutch housewife to demand improvements for her domestic labour conditions. The collective Matrix refers to a similar matter when stating that ‘women’s views were seen as important but only in their capacity as housewives.’ (1984, 74) Reading over the Stuttgart women’s guidelines while I am at De Kiefhoek, I find almost none of their specifications represented. The absence of their actual implementation, while the article was published in the exact time period, leaves me with questions. While the financial pressure of the government had a huge impact on all details of the development, Oud clearly didn’t design De Kiefhoek with the Stuttgart housewives in mind. Did their guidelines seem less relevant or achievable for working-class women? To include a maid’s room is not necessary when the whole house belongs to her. It was, after all, the maid herself who inhabited De Kiefhoek.
The house beside the museum apartment has a chalk drawing on the wall next to its door. Three hands on top of each other and some long lines in an up-and-down movement, like writing but without letters. I guess that the drawing has been made
by a child who lives there; it looks like an unintended graffiti. I draw a big hand on the street opposite the house to respond to how I feel greeted by the hands. I make more big hands almost every day. Huge hands that cover one side of the street to the other. They slowly disintegrate beneath the traffic on the street and sometimes overnight when it rains. I talk to people who pass by or who watch from their homes. Everyone is friendly but distant, and rarely do people get closer or stay around. They seem mostly amused by the hands. I start to use the chalk for my drawings on paper inside, but move on to pastels soon for higher colour intensity. I draw inside at the window that faces the playground. The door to the apartment is always open. I hear the sounds from the playground and that feels like an important input. I draw forms that engage or disengage with each other, like imprints of bodies or what happens in-between them. I apply the pastels and then move them around with my fingers and the palm of my hand so that the colours sometimes merge and dissolve into each other. The fuzzy lines look like they vibrate. The back gardens of the Kiefhoek houses were commonly used to plant vegetables as well as to keep animals; I have even heard of horses being held there. The architect Oud reflects on the decision to place the main gardens on the back side of the houses, thus making them invisible from the street: ‘The poorest workers will live here, and experience has taught me that with these sorts of inhabitants, proper care of the gardens cannot be expected.’ (1930, 358) Whether people did or did not take care of their garden is not important, it’s the judgement that comes with such a remark that is interesting to me. Oud must have generally considered the potential of untidy gardens as a threat to the design aesthetics of the streamlined De Kiefhoek facade. But in the above statement he makes an assumption about the behaviour of people as a moral judgement. The gardens then are made private to protect the exterior modernist ideal for rationalisation. Oud’s assessment is generalising, it considers a whole group to be incapable and ultimately damages the potential of any singular person within that group. In this way, the Kiefhoek architecture regulates private habitation means and desires, and the building represents what is considered proper by structurally dominant voices. A similar judgement also appears in a comment Oud made in regards to the two playgrounds of De Kiefhoek. Considering the many families that would move to the complex, Oud made the playgrounds an explicit addition in the architectural plans and worked them out carefully. However, a year after their construction, the initial foundation of sand got removed because ‘the kids bring the sand from the terrains to the street and crawl around everywhere like ants, so that one isn’t able to distinguish anymore where the playground ends and the street begins.’ (Oud, no date, no pagination). A fence with barbed wire was then installed around the site and opening hours were introduced for the playgrounds, which ‘will not make the case outwardly more attractive’. (Oud, no date, no pagination) I find the adaptation of the initial playground plans particularly interesting in relation to its current set-up. The playground opposite
the museum apartment is devoid of benches or trash cans. Leaving out seating areas on the playground most likely relates to the intention to prevent young people from ‘hanging around’. The concept of hangjongeren, youth who hang around, is understood as a problem in the general public of the Netherlands now. But of course young people still spend time in De Kiefhoek playgrounds, and they then sit on the ground and equipment, like parents and guardians who accompany the children also do. Controlling the public space in that way then, leaving out benches and trash cans to enforce certain behaviour, actually takes away the possibility of gathering and comfort and leads to trash being disposed on the ground. An interesting reflection happens when the director of Woningdienst, De Jonge van Ellemeet, speaks about the fences that divide each house from the street. Their construction caused more costs but were justified as they were deemed essential for a neighbourhood in which ‘one can expect much rowdiness’. (1931, 105) Destroyed fences, he believed, would lend an impoverished character to the neighbourhood and ‘this will inevitably return to the inhabitants’. (1931, 105) Asserting a relation between un/clean front gardens and un/clean inhabitants speaks to a particular type of education and class, but in this instance, the Woningdienst director articulates as well that one’s basic living circumstances will be reflected back on to the inhabitants. All conditions that are given to us set the scene in which we form as a subject. Going back to the domestic interior: Oud’s planning of the inner living spaces according to the ideas of rationalisation didn’t improve the labour conditions of the housewife, but set her in very specific positions inside the house. Building the kitchen so small made it a place for only the housewife’s labour rather than leaving it open to additional functions or uses determined by the inhabitants themselves.
The old houses had a single coal hearth in the living room. Not only was it used to cook on, it also served as the only heater in the home. While the kitchen had a gas socket, no stove was provided (and there really is no place to put it either). It is the single warm stove that keeps the family together in one room only, whereas heating up all rooms would allow them to follow their own desires in different rooms. During my residency, one woman told me how she remembered that in winter they sat huddled around the stove downstairs, one child next to the other, because the rest of the house was so cold. A neighbour pointed to the ceiling over the stove and explained how people used to make a hole there. They broke through the ceiling so that warm air could rise up to heat the sleeping area. The living rooms came with a built-in closet and shelves next to the window. They were specifically designed to regulate how and how much people could decorate. After the museum house’s renovation in 1990, certain interior elements like the shelves and doors were kept or recreated. But some people adapted those too, taking out the doors and shelves themselves, or painting them differently in colours they preferred. I asked one neighbour what she liked in her own home and she
grinned and said, ‘Bling!’ and described to me her preferred style of black-andwhite decoration and glitter. In the upstairs living quarters, a neighbour showed me how another hole had been made in the wall next to the staircase. The wall borders the bedroom intended by the architect for the parents. Being a small room, the hole was created so that one could lie on the bed with one’s legs stretched out and feet hanging through the hole over the staircase. Next to the staircase is a step up to an open, slightly elevated area, which was meant to offer the possibility of drying clothes indoors. Instead, many people built their own showers here. A slightly more undetermined space than the rest, it offered several possibilities for use. It was commonly used for storage. When De Kiefhoek was renovated, the space was levelled and transformed into an extra room. During the rebuilding in 1990, the architecture team took great care to recreate the style and external appearance of De Kiefhoek precisely as it had been designed. However, the inside structure was adapted to create two, three and five bedroom apartments. To do so, the set-up of the upstairs level was changed with some of the houses merged to create homes for bigger families. The part most significantly transformed was the kitchen. The architectural plans for almost all the houses were redrawn with an extension towards the gardens to enlarge the kitchen. The kitchen became a room of a similar scale to the others, a room in which a dinner table could fit. De Kiefhoek was built to create good housing for large, poor families. But the prejudice of the architect and government in building for these working-class families also determined the actual scope of possibilities for the people inhabiting the buildings. What a working class person does or does not need was never (or rarely) asked. Rather, their needs were decided by the people governing them. The modernist housing project emphasised the education of working-class citizens from the position of the dominator. By studying this historic example we can observe how the pre-given structures of building sets bodies in positions that co-determine the options and possibilities of living. As the cultural critic, activist and blogger Egbert Alejandro Martina writes so clearly, ‘The built environment is, then, more than just a collection of buildings: it is a series of translations of white supremacist capitalist ableist cis/heteropatriarchal assumptions about living, working, and being.’ (Martina, 2017) Family houses are still planned similarly to how they were set up at the beginning of the twentieth century, the greatest shift being how the scale of rooms has changed to accommodate contemporary needs and expectations. To me, what now seems of most influence to the conditions of living in the south of Rotterdam where De Kiefhoek is situated is the legislation of city planning. I want to conclude by mentioning a few factors. How and where a person can live in Rotterdam is determined by the housing permit Wbmgp. In 2006, a ‘law
for special measures on urban problems’ came into practice in the Netherlands. It is also known as the Rotterdam Law, since Rotterdam was the first city to make use of it. It is a law intended to regulate the composition of low-income residents in the city. The law comes into effect when a particular neighborhood has 25 per cent or more unemployed inhabitants and 45 per cent or more low-income inhabitants. To move to such a neighbourhood when the law is active, one then needs to obtain a housing permit that is only granted when studying, living in the city for longer than six years or earning above the minimum income (€1219,09 per month for a single person aged 21 or older in January 2020). The permit-regulated areas are Rotterdam’s so-called fragile or problematic neighbourhoods, a few of those are situated in the south of Rotterdam. For the large part, the law affects first- and second-generation immigrants who live in the areas. Finding affordable housing outside of the permit-regulated areas is a frequent topic of conversation between my friends, and increasingly becoming a problem for artists who are not Dutch and/or on a low income. In 2019 the Rotterdam Law was extended so that it now includes a screening for previous ‘unwanted’ or criminal behaviour. The law grants the municipality the power to deny people access to housing when they are deemed inappropriate under their regulations. In 2011 The National Program Rotterdam South (NPRZ), was set up to assess socio-economic problems accumulating in the south of Rotterdam. It is an action plan that wants to increase the employment rate, the level of education and the quality of living in the area in the coming twenty years. Initiated by the state, it was set up by the combined forces of the municipality, the federal republic, building corporations, businesses, schools and local partners. (NPRZ, 2017–19) In an in-depth article for Vers Beton (2019) Saskia Naafs and Guido van Eijck break apart how social housing in the south of Rotterdam specifically is being demolished or renovated to open up the housing market, and to build houses that can be sold to people with a different capacity for investment. This trend is influenced by the NPRZ, and Naafs and Eijck show how the modernisation of the neighbourhoods then isolates the people who have to leave their original neighbourhood in favour of higher-income citizens.
One day I started to draw on the street with one child, and put all the chalk in the middle of the street. There was a bunch of kids just hanging around; it was a really warm and sunny day. Because he was behind my back I didn’t notice at first, but one boy took a small piece of white chalk and drew a rectangle in a big square — a house, a door. It took me a second to understand the image, it was not the shape of a traditional house but it fitted right into this neighbourhood. Two boys were cycling around on their bikes. Every time they passed, they said, ‘Look!’ and then they did a little trick, like lifting one foot or lifting their butt. It seemed like they were drawing with us by riding through the chalk and leaving wheel marks. Later they drew a big blue blob that was coming out of the gutter. They became really into it then, determined to finish it, and a bit desperate when all the blue chalk seemed to have been used up. The younger brother of one of these boys joined in. He hardly said one word to me, but was very focused and made several drawings
that were all very beautiful, abstract and tender. He fully immersed himself in drawing, sat very close to the ground, touching it almost with his whole body. By the end he was completely covered in chalk. Another girl, waiting for her mum, stood by the side looking a bit down. I asked her if she wanted to draw something. She came and sat next to me, our sides were touching, and she drew delicate lines, images of bears and dogs. Drawing on the street with them felt easy. It was direct. The children were always pretty clear on whether they wanted to stay or not; all of them were very polite but if they wanted to leave they just left. But I also remember that as a child life felt very complicated to me , and what looked like clarity to me might not have felt like that to them. I look at the street drawings a day later and they seem to contain everything I need to know. The domestic for me is a space of a soft and hard dichotomy: it has the comfort of a home I intend to create, but it contains boundaries pre-set by public notions. bell hooks writes: ‘When we choose to love we choose to move against fear — against alienation and separation. The choice to love is a choice to connect — to find ourselves in the other.’ (2000, 93) With my work, I want to understand how we can reflect and ultimately resist with softness, rather than using hard means of refusal rooted in a society of domination. Looking at the details of historic buildings that discriminate gives us an understanding of where we come from, but it is with affective exchanges and by cultivating awareness that I move along. And it is in talking with the people who used and use the rooms of De Kiefhoek that I learned that even when much is already set up by a dominator, we can poke holes in and soften the hard lines. We can manifest outside of our bodies what we have or want inside of us, the boundary between bodies and space is porous in both ways. An architecture of love, then, doesn’t consist of bricks and walls and foundations and regulations, it is what exists in the space between those buildings when bodies come together through curiosity, trust and care.
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