I’ve spent a long while trying to work out what’s appropriate to write about right now. I don’t want to be pushing productivity in a pandemic and there are already so many voices documenting their experiences, supporting remote working and offering creative outlets. It feels like there’s more to take in than ever. We’re processing the experience of living in a completely different way. We’re processing the news, constantly, wherever we look. We’re processing all of the content people are producing to help, whether that’s creative challenges or quarantine diaries.
I didn’t want to add to that. But I did want to make something.
So here’s a little story about a dog, inspired by Blair Braverman’s storytimes that are sometimes the distractions that get me through the day. Plus who doesn’t love a pup and a pep talk?
While we’re all spending much more time inside, it feels like the right time to write a little something reflecting on my time living and working in a house share as a tiny hermit.
Just before social distancing came into full force, I moved house. I waved goodbye to my home of three and a half years, all of my housemates and 3 inches of each of the legs of my favourite chair. I packed up more belongings than I knew I had. Then I made the long long journey to my new home – or rather I walked 13 roads over.
The one thing people are always shocked by is that I shared my old house with at least 6 other people at any one time. They question how we all fit (very easily) and how I coped as an introvert (not so easily). But the more I think about my time there, those people shaped the space I lived in as much as any of the walls did.
Over those three and a half years, I’ve lived with James, Adeline, Nick, Sarah, Ariella, Ed, Sam, Emma, Rineke, Ben, (another) James, Liz, Dana, Lucy, Luc, Joe, Greg, and Pete.
I’ve listed their names here so I don’t forget them, and so I don’t forget they were real people with their own lives outside of my experience of them as part of the fabric of the house we shared. It’s easy to pull out quips and anecdotes that capture moments where we happened to exist in the same space and tell them as if those glimpses are indicative of who they were, not just who I knew. For that reason, and their privacy, I won’t be telling any tales of kitchen hijinks here today, although I know they’ll probably be stories I share in pubs for years to come. I will say that those 3 years included more nudity, fires, cameras and paddling pool incidents than I could have ever expected.
Instead, this is how living in that house, as made by its walls, inhabitants and location, shaped me.
There will always be a James in the living room
I think one of the first things I learned is that no shared space is equally shared. In my house that meant that there was always someone called James who was most comfortable in the living room and made it their own. At the beginning this frustrated me, why couldn’t I just be that comfortable in there too? Why couldn’t I just stretch out across the sofa and turn on the TV? Then I realised I could have. There will always be a James in the living room, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t take up space of your own. They were able to expand to fill the space, because they decided they belonged there. I don’t think I ever wanted to belong there, so I didn’t. Now, I’m in a different space, I’m choosing to enter every room as if it were my own. While my boyfriend and I definitely inhabit the spaces differently, and have spaces that we are more comfortable in than others, we’re both the James in the living room now.
Doors shouldn’t be transparent
In Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, safety is right near the bottom. It’s what you need once you’ve got the basics of shelter and food in place. That was something I struggled to establish at times in the house. I didn’t feel safe in the shared spaces, because they weren’t mine and I felt like I had to hide somewhat. I found refuge in my room, but I had a patio door that led onto the garden. At times that door was a joy. It gave me some much needed vitamin D and let me watch the chonky cat who stalked around our road. But it also meant that if there were people in the garden, my one safe space didn’t feel quite so safe from prying eyes. I think everyone needs a room (of one’s own) where they can shut the door and just be, no matter how comfortable they are with the other people in their home. That always takes me back to when we first got my dog
A little fire is good for you
I am largely risk averse. I don’t like danger. I have a lot of OCDs around household safety. So, the fact that I lived and survived in a house that had more than one small fire is no mean feat. Essentially, they created the best test bed of exposure therapy I could have asked for. While I don’t wish fires, burglaries or floods on anyone, knowing you can survive those things and seeing how you cope in the moment is terrifying and empowering.
Don’t listen through the wall
My room backed onto the kitchen, so I heard a lot through the wall. They were thin walls. While I’m almost always in headphones (for that reason), I did hear things I didn’t want to and shouldn’t have. Sure there were gross things. But I also heard other people talking about me AKA everyone’s continuing teenage nightmare. Not everything they said was nice and that was hard. At first, I internalised everything. Then I pretended not to hear, and secretly listened in torturing myself. Then I realised that I didn’t need to listen and what’s more than that I shouldn’t. I say that not only because it wasn’t productive for me (I was never going to ask anyone about it) but because those were their conversations to work out their own feelings and perceptions. Gossiping is a key part of social bonding and understanding where we sit in the world. When I chat with my friends, I only talk about the things that I’m working through or that will bring us closer together. I’ll hyperbolise. I’ll let my insecurities show. I’ll add my own perspective as I try to understand how I exist in relation to other people and things. That’s exactly what they were doing, and they were entitled to it. It wasn’t the entire opinion of me and it certainly wasn’t a representation of who I actually was.
There are worlds behind doors
It’s easy to quickly put people into boxes, particularly when you don’t see them very often. Greg, at 6’8” almost instantly became “tall Greg”. But you have to be careful not to hold onto those boxes too hard. I think there were definitely moments, where I’d already decided who someone was and I came into the room with that belief and wouldn’t let them be anyone else. But no matter how hard I held onto those boxes, everyone always proved themselves to be something more, to have so many more sides than the six of the container I’d given them. I do wonder whether I got to see those sides more easily, because I was spending time with them at home. So I’m trying to give people more space and more light now to show me whatever sides they’re comfortable to share.
Life is richer with other people (in small doses)
As much as I tried to keep to myself in the house, some of the brief moments I spent with people in the kitchen or the garden were some of the best moments in the house, or at least the most entertaining. I wouldn’t have had half as many stories or interesting conversations without them, and their often bizarre TV habits.
So that’s what I learned from living in a big ol house share. I think I came out of that house a better, stronger person. But I’m glad to have a bit more of my own space now. I’m sure there will be plenty of new challenges, particularly with the next few weeks/months of spending so much time inside, so let’s see what I have to report back after the next however long of being a person in the world living in a place.
I didn’t start this year with many resolutions or goals. But I did make an active decision to turn my recent attempts to try to learn new crafting skills into an annual tradition. Over the past little while, I’ve tried to teach my hands to do something new every year whether that’s an intro to throwing pottery on a wheel, carving jewellery from wax, screen printing, or woodcarving. This year I’m going to, hopefully, learn how to weave.
I’ve gained so much through dedicating time to crafting. As someone who spends most of their day on the computer, whether that’s in the office or illustrating digitally, I think I need to make the effort to remember that my hands can do more than just make pixels appear on a screen. That’s probably why I love cooking and DIY too.
So I wanted to try to articulate that love of making and create something of a manifesto for making to try and get more people relearning how to use their hands with me.
Let’s start at the end and unravel the experience together.
Using the thing
Whenever you use something you’ve made with your own two hands, you get to relive the joy of its creation. Every wobble and groove tells a story. I have a set of wonky little bowls, which are more tiny trays because they’re so shallow, that I would never find a use for if I’d bought them. But every time I have a snack I want to put them in my little bowl because I made it.
A finished thing
After a few ugly stages, there’s always a magical moment when you’re making something with your hands when you can see the final product start to appear. In that moment I like to look back to the materials I started with, whether that’s a round of wax that turned into a ring, a log that turned into a spoon, some yarn that turned into a tapestry, some clay that turned into a bowl, and reflect on the alchemy my hands have managed.
Making the thing
When people describe making as meditative, I don’t think they mean that they aren’t thinking about anything but rather that they’re using their whole mind to think about one thing. That kind of focus in the attention economy feels like an act of rebellion almost. You can’t be texting at the same time, whatever is in your hands has to be your primary focus. It’s slow and steady (unless you’re a speed knitter). It’s a respite from a fast paced digital world. Pulling screen prints is simple but there’s a careful balance of physical actions you need to focus on everytime you roll the weegie across the silk.
Learning the skill
When I went woodcarving we were given one simple mantra: the knife won’t do anything you don’t tell it to. That to me translated as, when you’re carving wood you have to mean it. You make a decision about where you’re trying to get to. Then you make a decision about what you want the next cut to do. Then you decide on the best technique to use. Then you do it, as decisively as you can.Those long, clean, curling shavings only happen when you know what you want to tell the wood and you say it clearly. I found a lot of mental respite in focusing on learning technique, on making those shavings and being a beginner.
Imagining
If there’s magic in seeing something appear out of raw materials through your hard work, there’s just as much magic in starting with nothing and just imagining what’s possible. It’s a conversation between you and the material. The first step into the world of making things bey hand is one you have to take together with the environment you’re in. I think that’s what I love the most about crafting, particularly outdoors. It reminds you that you’re part of the physical world and you have just as much ability to shape that world, to make it beautiful, purposeful, or fun, as anyone (or anything) else.
A manifesto
So that’s it, my manifesto for making. If you love to craft or haven’t made anything since you were in school, I’d love to hear from you and to hear about what you and your hands will make next. I’m always up for new crafting inspiration.
I still haven’t learned to knit and I’d love to try wood turning, because I had so much fun carving last year. But I’m taking it one skill at a time. I’ll keep you updated on my journey into weaving.
FYI I book all of my classes in London through Obby. If you’re interested in trying it out (it’s got all kinds of classes from crafters across the city), you can get £10 off your first class. This isn’t sponsored, it’s just a super useful service, but that is my referral code.
Do you ever see or do something small and have the instant realisation “this is a metaphor for …”?
I had one of those lightbulb moments of self-awareness while I was away in Cornwall last year. I was on a walk and I’d intended to follow a certain coastal route which took me around the headland and then across a beach while the tide was low. I’d made it round the first section of headland, taking off about seven layers as I went. I’m always overly cautious about layering. The start of the descent to the beach was just some stairs followed by a little viewing platform. But then there was a series of jagged rocks I would have had to scramble down.
I stood on that viewing platform not taking in the view but trying to work out a route down for a good 15 minutes. Or at least it was enough for a father and son playing football on the beach to have cocked their heads.
I couldn’t do it.
I don’t like having unsure footing, particularly if I’m going down, particularly if there’s an audience.
So, instead, I headed back up to the headland and found an alternative route round – the long way. It probably took me an extra hour, perhaps more. But that extra hour of sand dunes, wildflowers and well worn paths was probably my favourite hour of walking the whole trip.
I will always take the long route. I know there’s a sea of rhetoric and advice about working smarter and not harder, about risk and reward. But I’m happy to stroll slowly, to walk a little longer or a little further and enjoy the way round. I can get lost on solid ground, but I need the ground to be solid.
Quite often I work harder not smarter – to type that feels like an exposing admission in an age of productivity. I’ve done it since I was a child. I undertook art projects of vast scale and repetition. I solved maths problems (at least once) through brute force. I learned facts I needed to wrote style.
I find there’s a comfort in working through the work.
I was reminded of that feeling at the start of this year as I sat down to make my goals for the year. This is the first year I’ve not felt myself striving to take a ladder upwards. Where I’d been following a clearly signposted route for most of my career (university, graduate training, metropolitan elite type job), now I’ve been left to my own devices I want to explore a little more. I could keep racing up, but I think I’d like to look around for a while.
I’m not scared of falling so much anymore, in both the metaphorical and literal sense (I conquered those rocks later that same year). But I remember that headland walk so fondly that I’m not ready to let go of the idea of just trying to see what’s on the level around me, to have an experience that’s broad and full of detours where you see more.
In A Field Guide to Getting Lost, Rebecca Solnit makes reference to the Tibetan word for track, shul. “A path is a shul because it is an impression in the ground left by the regular tread of feet, which has kept it clear of obstructions and maintained it for the use of others.”
There’s a sense of community in taking or even just touching on the path, the shul, well worn. Where we give ourselves time to wander more, we can find more common ground.
There’s also an ability to clear space in your mind to explore through repetition because your regular tread of thinking has kept it clear. That’s how habits work. You wear down a clear path in your mind, then when you have to do a thing your path to the next action is clear of obstruction and so easy to follow you can do it without thinking.
There’s also so much to discover when you take the long route. While short challenges push us, long exertions give us time to look around and reflect.
While we should carve our own tracks and I’m certainly not advocating avoiding everything that’s intimidating – fear based decisions can be so limiting. But I want to make something of a call to take the long way some of the time.
So I’m going to keep taking the long route, not just because I don’t like jagged rocks.
As a bit of a personal challenge, I agreed to run a sketching workshop where I work. Partnering up with our brilliant women’s network, Beyond Her, who I’d done some artwork for in the past, I designed a session for anyone feeling blank, stuck in a rut, or lacking creative confidence, to show them how drawing can help liberate the imagination, enhance your memory, and help you communicate with impact whether or not you have a “creative” role.
In the past I’d felt awkward about ‘marketing myself’ as a visual person in the office, because I don’t have a creative job title and I’d held onto a couple of offhanded comments from colleagues that I’d molded into something discouraging. But after seeing the potential of bringing my illustrating skills into my research work, I was feeling more confident in sharing sketching as a tiny superpower with the people I work with. The only thing I had to do was get over the discomfort of being in the spotlight.
I based the 90 minute session on four pillars, a brief bit of theory, simple tasks to get people drawing and build confidence, sharing the reasoning behind those tasks and how to practically put them into use, and offering some inspiration to show how far sketching has the power to go. I took the things I’d learned about group facilitation from co-design sessions like having clear task timings, offering a mix of listening, doing and discussing time to support all kinds of learners and doing a bit of my own arts and crafts before the session.
I produced custom worksheets for all of the tasks, which made the session feel more seamless. I prepped a couple of fun twists on bits that would have other wise just been me talking both to try and make them more engaging and to make me feel less awkward. But I think the thing I was proudest of was making a little sketchnoting booklet that people could add to as the session went on and take away as a reminder.
Through all of that I learned that I like super hands on tasks that are short and pacey, because I don’t like to awkwardly wander around a room of other people doing things. That need for pace in the tasks I designed, led me to a solution (the second time I did the workshop) for the problem I have in all workshops – how do you call a task to an end. The answer I found was music. I made all of the doing like musical chairs, when the music stops you have to put the pen down.
Those sessions also taught me to loosen up the reins a little. The best moments were where we discussed as a group, not where I was spouting off facts. That’s something I’m going to look to bring into future sessions. I’m going to have trust that if I have the bones in place the information that people want and need will come out in the end.
I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed running those sessions. Gone was the awkwardness I normally feel when I’m standing at the front of a workshop. I think the difference was this was content that I already implicitly knew and believed to be true. Plus there’s something kind of magical about being in a room of people drawing.
It was brilliant to be confident presenting a workshop. But seeing the impact it had on the people who came along was a whole other level.
I hadn’t expected such lovely feedback (I’m not sure I expected anyone to turn up in order to be able to give it, if I’m honest). I hadn’t expected to have lots of participants to ask to take extra handouts to practice with later, or to have people come up to me to proudly share how they’d started using sketchnoting just days or even hours later. I hadn’t expected to be asked to run the session again, and certainly not twice.
I’m so excited to hopefully run more sessions like this in the future and to see how this shift in my relationship to being more visual at the office changes my work for the better in the future.
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