I can never seem to work at home these days. In fact, the places where I work best are the squashed-up in-between spaces, spaces not designed for productivity. Not in the home office with a large high-resolution display, or in a cavernous reading room with air conditioning, but on an awkward bench outside a jamming studio with some aggressively mediocre rock band playing inside, or in an empty train in the middle of the day with my noise canceling headphones trying its futile best to combat the ambient screeches of the London underground.
I listened to a podcast about songwriting recently, and a couple of the songwriters swore by writing somewhere not too precious - or a $100 couch or with free pens from the bank. An expensive studio with an illustrious history would just intimidate them and scare away the muses. It’s a matter of pressure: in less than ideal places there is less expectation about the outcome. By lowering that bar, one is able to work at all. Most times, the struggle is to be able to work at all. To get through the bad first drafts and to the good stuff.
Working in a place where others are not also seems to reduce the pressure. I can’t compare my productivity with others who are not working. I am reminded of how Andy Warhol used to invite people to his studio, where the guests will hang out and chat while he would be working separately in the corner. Perhaps that was his intention as well. When I’m alone, the inner critic gets unbearably loud, but in a crowded space, they behave more civilly, or least less vocally.
I’ve been learning a lot about my own habits and tendencies these past few months. Finally being a patient teacher, or coach, or mentor, to myself, and getting to know the person as they are rather than what they should already be. It’s hard work, but I guess that’s just life.
Currently listening to: Covet.
This is the opener my running playlist - perfect for sunny days.