The extraordinary in the ordinary
In another big year of change, I learn how to sit in cafes and sketch.
I was never a sketchbook type of artist. I’ve also never nursed a cup of coffee for an hour in a cafe to sit and work. During the last few weeks of 2023, however, I did both—me with a sketchbook, my kid on her laptop. We like getting an early start before 9 am to catch a bit of quiet and space before the brigade of laptops start setting up shop around 10. During any given weekday, you can see a row of them if you peek inside the window of nearly any cafe in my Brooklyn neighborhood with people focused on their screens, often with headphones to shut distraction out as they work.
I, on the other hand, take everything in as I try to record what I see in my sketchbook. I’m quickly reminded that I’m not particularly good at it. I told my kid that I don’t even really doodle at all—I never have—and she looked at me in disbelief. Can you be good at drawing, but suck at sketching? Sounds illogical, but it’s a different skillset and a habit that I’m uncomfortable with.
Sitting in a cafe with a sketchbook and a pencil while everyone around me types away on a laptop, including my own kid across from me, feels weirdly exposing. It’s a bit of performance anxiety, in the same way I get a pinch of nervousness when playing Pictionary because in a timed situation, I resort to drawing stick figures and indecipherable scribbles under pressure.
In one moment of frustration I turned to my artist kid and declared that I didn’t know how to draw. She just side eyed me and replied very dryly, “of course you do.”
I felt humbled by her mature response.
What I’ve come to appreciate during these cafe visits is that it forces me to abandon perfection. I also learn how to sit for an hour and focus on singular moments—something that I admit I’m pretty terrible at. But there are joys in observing the ordinary details of life: a particular color of a woman’s scarf that I internally debate the color of (is it chartreuse? Or closer to canary yellow?); the negative space created between the edge of the table and the top of someone’s knee; the bits of audible conversations that drift in and out like vignettes of a cinematic scene. All brief glimpses into strangers’ lives.
I overhear a woman discussing the movie, May December with her friend. Another complimenting her coffee date on her new pink sweater that she got on sale at Nordstrom, and a trio of friends who look to be in their late 50s/60s (though, to be honest, who can tell age anymore these days) chatting about the progress of various ongoing house projects. On weekends, we would often see dads come in with their toddlers. They sit opposite each other in the same way that I’m sitting opposite mine, the child coloring with crayons while the dad reads a book. These are sweet moments to witness and it takes me back fifteen years when my kids were that age.
I get it now. I see the appeal of sitting in a cafe and just being with people. It makes me feel like I’m a part of my neighborhood, even if I talk to no one aside from the brief exchange I have with the person behind the counter. This isn’t something I sought out or wanted during all those years of remote work, but sitting here with my kid while she worked on her college essays, I get it now.
The benefits of a scenery change is something I’m reminded of by my teenager who started going to cafes after school to do homework and work on her college apps. In my very frugal mindset, I often scoffed at the idea of spending 5 dollars on a latte when I could just pour a cup of already-made coffee at home. Yes, I am (was?) one of those people who believe that small routine purchases add up over time to real savings.
But the thing that is arguably the hardest part of leaving the working world is that the days can be very lonely. Even last year, I started off January with a series of meetings for consulting work that lasted for several months. At least there was a life line to the outside world of hearing people’s voices even if cameras were turned off. The start of 2024 was very quiet.
I anticipate in this year of another big transition for our family when our youngest goes to college, that the silence in the apartment will be even louder. I find myself searching for routines to counter the loneliness. Sitting at a cafe with a latte and a sketchbook might be one of my new things. I learn to be ok about this too from my kid. It doesn’t mean I’m not still frugal; it just means that I’m worth treating myself to a cup of coffee once a week.
As much as the college essay writing was a grind for her and stressful for me, I will miss the time that we spent together on the couch, in cafes, and on our beds sitting side by side propped up with pillows discussing her ideas, her writing, and her artwork. I witnessed how she became a good writer in the past several months after endless multiple revisions and self-reflections on questions that are not easy to answer for anyone, let alone a 17 year old.
“You’ve become a good storyteller,” I compliment her.
Through this process, I learned more about her as a person, and I learned more about myself as a mother. I think that I will miss these ordinary every day moments the most.
As she hits submit on her final application, she declares that she is quitting coffee because she no longer needs it. I ask her if we can still sit in cafes together before she goes off to college. She nods yes. But I know that some of those future coffee dates will be alone, just me and a sketch book.
A few links that caught my attention this week
When Women Artists Choose Mothering Over Making Work (gifted article, written by the wonderful Ligaya Mishan, who wrote our last piece of food business press in the Times)
75 Books By Women of Color to Read in 2024 (This is my year of reading books)
As you typed, I could feel this lovely time with your youngest has been woven into a core memory that will last with you forever.
What a lovely post, Jenna! I deeply relate to scoffing at buying a beverage to sit at a cafe when I could be at home instead, but there is so much life we'd otherwise miss out on if we didn't have this "third place"—or a "second place" for those who don't have an office to go to for a 9-5.
It takes some time to get used to, but I love sketching from life—it invites a quick, loose energy where we don't have time to ruminate on where to put down our next pencil stroke. When the person we are sneakily drawing gets up to leave, we have to draw the rest of their body from memory or Frankenstein their form with another person we see. So much of the practice is about relinquishing control and staying receptive to what's around us, rather than focusing on the result. I hope you come to love the practice too, and realize that whatever you produce is a worthwhile reflection of how you see the world around you!