Cleaning

The guy who usually is cleaning the hall in the building at this hour once a week is not here. I am relieved since his behavior towards women is somewhat disturbing. Hovering on the edge of the appropriate, he manages to touch female bodies with his words. I am not going to expose myself again by giving an example, but I will reveal the presence of words indicating archaic female body parts.

We, and with we I mean several other females in this building, have discussed the right attitude towards this guy. We analyzed his intelligence, and I even think we talked about guys like him in general, which of course is a sexist thing to do. Hoping not to be too vague or hopelessly dated in my complaint, I want to share my emotions with you.

The guy who is usually cleaning the hall is still not here. Ten minutes have passed, and I am reaching my informal deadline, time to get to work. One of the most beautiful things in the life of an artist is the freedom to decide when it is the right time to get to it. I am a sucker for the morning. My work especially when I am sketching benefits from daylight, although in this studio the light is indirect, and falling in all its modesty from the sky through a skylight window, above me.

The right attitude towards guys in buildings that are always cleaning. Older guys, working for the local government, some kind of senior assessment plan, a grey zone between working for free, grabbing an extra buck, while a younger person could have done this work for real money. I am not joking. The guy who cleans pisses me off, he harasses me and other women in the building in a slow, creepy way. With words that are meant to touch us, or rather him, in places that are none of his fucking business. And yes, of course it is my own fault. I borrow his vacuum cleaner every once a while, to clean my studio. I make polite small talk, when I pass him on my way to the bathroom that he has just been cleaning.