Working on hands and knees, I silently polished floor and wall mosaics with my grandmother's handkerchief. Moving into the vaulted Preston Bradley Hall, I stood up and burnished the walls, stretching my arms toward the Tiffany ceiling high above. At the culmination of these domestic gestures, I read aloud the names of thirty female authors to insert them into this former Chicago Public Library alongside the thirty canonical male authors whose names are inscribed on the walls. A performance of symbolic acts to honor and make visible the unacknowledged labor of female artists in the Chicago Cultural Center.