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As with most of my paintings, an old poem helps me to define my work.

This one reflects the constraints faced by women in the early 20th century, where domestic duties were considered their primary role. Norma L Davis’s poem in 1890, challenges these expectations by expressing the speaker’s longing for a life beyond the confines of the household. It also suggests that women’s experiences and desires were often overlooked or dismissed.

“What is the matter with me, I wonder;
Is it the way that the bees sing under
And over the moons of the marigolds,
Pirating sweets from their yellow folds?

Or is it the way that the grey thrush calls
My heart away from these pent-in walls?
I do not know – but it cannot be.
I must not stay at the window here
Where the blue-mantled hills cry out to me
Till their wistful beauty seems oh, so near!
So I turn my head and my eyes away,
For this is Monday – and washing-day.

I plunge my arms in the fragrant suds
And hide my face in a cloud of steam;
But the foaming soap-flakes are breaking buds;
The bubbles are stones in a mountain stream;
The blue is a patch of the laughing sky;
The starch is the flight of a dragon-fly;
The washing-board is the wet bush sand;
Oh, only a woman will understand
My foolish longing for wonderland!”

It’s Monday and it’s Washing day

Meg Lewer

AUD$1,100
Size: 75w x 60h x 2d cms
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Original mixed media piece on stretched canvas with D Rings and wire, ready to hang.

Comes with original poem and Certificate of authenticity.

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Additional Information

As with most of my paintings, an old poem helps me to define my work.

This one reflects the constraints faced by women in the early 20th century, where domestic duties were considered their primary role. Norma L Davis’s poem in 1890, challenges these expectations by expressing the speaker’s longing for a life beyond the confines of the household. It also suggests that women’s experiences and desires were often overlooked or dismissed.

“What is the matter with me, I wonder;
Is it the way that the bees sing under
And over the moons of the marigolds,
Pirating sweets from their yellow folds?

Or is it the way that the grey thrush calls
My heart away from these pent-in walls?
I do not know – but it cannot be.
I must not stay at the window here
Where the blue-mantled hills cry out to me
Till their wistful beauty seems oh, so near!
So I turn my head and my eyes away,
For this is Monday – and washing-day.

I plunge my arms in the fragrant suds
And hide my face in a cloud of steam;
But the foaming soap-flakes are breaking buds;
The bubbles are stones in a mountain stream;
The blue is a patch of the laughing sky;
The starch is the flight of a dragon-fly;
The washing-board is the wet bush sand;
Oh, only a woman will understand
My foolish longing for wonderland!”