Laundry Drying by Berthe Morisot
Monday was washday in the old days
slaving and socialising at the lavoir,
lines of laundry hanging limp
along the common drying green
or flying, frantic in the West wind.
Anxious watching for those rainclouds -
no tumble drier as a back-up.
I wonder where they dried their coloureds
everything here is Persil white
in pride at brightest whiteness -
or shame at poverty’s grey.
a typical lavoir in France
photo credit Wikkipedia
A lavoir is a public place in France set aside for the washing of clothes. Commonly sited on a spring or beside a river, many are provided with roofs for shelter. With the coming of piped water supplies and modern drainage, lavoirs gradually fell into disuse although a number of communes have restored ancient ones, some of which date back to the 10th Century. In my own village the lavoir is about half a mile away, down a steep hill.
Margo Roby gave us a choice of Impressionist paintings to pore over, to inspire us.
great poem and just as good to have you explain the lavoir to us, I never knew that these existed, with the roof and so forth.. i bet they were hot beds of gossip, raucous laughter as the clothes were washed with cold red hands! awesome.. c
As good as the village shop for gossip! But O those sore chapped hands! I remember them from the days of two babies in nappies (real ones) and no washing machine.
This line is so strong, Viv:
“in pride at brightest whiteness -
or shame at poverty’s grey.”
Loved your description and explanation. Sometimes I long for simpler times, but I think I shall keep my washer and dryer, regardless.
I have to get a red sweatshirt dry for a school red, white and blue dress down day tomorrow and it is raining. We have a drier but I don’t often use it as it is in the garage. The washing machine doesn’t spin one item – I wish I had a mangle.
Lovely painting, Viv. I still hang my washing out to dry here in SA, but when we’re in Florida, I use the tumble drier, as washing lines are frowned upon.
We still hung our wash to dry, when I was young. I loved watching a line of sheets, or clothing. Something soothing…
So do I, though mine is a rotary drier. It’s the scent of sun-dried washing that is unmissable for me.
I wonder if the coloreds were washed at all. Or maybe only rarely. My grandmother boiled the clothes in a huge iron kettle with home-made lye soap. That has a way of turning out pastels.
Thanks for the picture and info about the lavoir. That must have been the true center of the city gossip. Imagine, having to lug all those heavy wet things back up hill, and then hang them to dry.
I think you’re right about the outer clothes. They must have stunk to high heaven – no wonder nosegays or spiced pomanders were carried to hide the smell!
A nice evocation of wash day, back in the old days. The Indian equivalent of a lavoir is dhoby.
I’ve often wondered how people managed in the old days. Wet washing around the house is the pits.
how interesting. I had seen an old lavoir in France, just somewhere in the country side where we stopped for a picnic. A rather lovely peaceful place.