Work Cafe

“I promise I won’t ruin your table, I’m a very tidy painter.”

I’m prone to working on the floor at home, hunched over like a goblin through the night. I sit awkwardly angled and twisted until my feet and legs fall asleep and it’s slow agony bringing them back to life. I have eczema on my ring finger and if I don’t preemptively bandage it, my paint brush rubs it raw. I often work at night, with low, warm light, and my eyes strain to see the color properly. My head inevitably turns sideways to curb my nystagmus. I get neck pain easily. And despite knowing this pattern, I worked like this for years.

For a while, these were just the working conditions I was dealt- you can only spread out so much in a tiny studio apartment or when living with 6 other housemates. But for the past two years, before I moved, I had my own room designated as my studio. I imagined becoming a serious artist and business owner- I would fill my cabinets with wholesale inventory, My cards would be sorted by occasion and best sellers. I’d have months worth of packaging supplies and ink stocked. I thought I would invest in a flat file cabinet to properly store my paintings. I had a big table to work on. I had good natural lighting. I had more space in this one room than I had ever had before. And I think I squandered it?

Maybe it was because the room was cold or because the pipes knocked in a very spooky pattern (always at night, every night!) or because the whole room was covered in carpet, which tempted me into laying on the floor too often- but I struggled to do work in there. I didn’t really like being in there at all. I tried so hard to make it my own, I filled the walls with my art and decorated with plants and string lights, but it never felt right. And it didn’t feel right until I moved my most precious bedroom items in there so I could live and sleep in my studio for the two months before I moved. Once it became my bedroom, it felt really nice.

Suddenly, that room was finally mine. Was it because I dragged in a mirror and bedside table? Because I filled the closet with my favorite clothes? Was is from sleeping so uncomfortably on the floor? It quickly became a room that was just mine- there was an unspoken rule that only I could open the door. I found myself sleeping with tiny squares of watercolor paper tangled in my sheets. I would wake up in the middle of the night, turn on my light, and start drawing at 3:00 am. The entwinement of art space and living space gave me purpose and distraction during this life-chapter limbo.

Now that I live in a tiny room, it’s difficult to work where I live. In a pinch, I can paint on my bed, but it’s chaotic and hurts my back. I have a nice big table in my living room, but I hate the solitude of being an artist. I want to be around people, even if we don’t talk. I need the energy of others and the comfort that we’re all working on something together. So I’ve returned to my preferred city art studio- a cafe. I love the cliche of working at a cafe. It’s tricky to find the perfect one. It can’t be too modern or too popular. It has to have a coffee menu AND a beer/wine menu. The surface area of the table has to be large enough for food, drinks, large pads of paper, paint, brushes, and a scattering of colored pencils. I like to table-hop until I can get the perfect seat by a window.

Sometimes I feel hesitant or embarrassed when i unpack tubes of paint next to my $12 glass of wine, but I tend to get only positive responses. Nothing delights me more than a sweet server encouraging me to stay and paint for as long as I like. Or when a stranger bangs on the window to yell through the glass that they love my drawing. Though sometimes I work on more intimate pieces in public and have to choke out an awkward “no” when strangers ask if they can look. Sometimes I avoid looking up from my paper so I don’t have to engage in scripted dialogue. Is painting at a cafe actually just performance art?

I’m always looking for the ideal cafe studio. I hope that holding a paint brush instead of clacking away at a keyboard makes me a more desirable seat-filler. I know I’m taking up space and lingering. It’s just so easy to romanticize the cliche.