The Art of the Hobnob

Last Wednesday I went to a local art class. I didn’t mean to go to an art class. I had actually made plans to go to Kenwood House for the day, but the threat of train strikes meant that got shunted forward. I was actually looking for something completely different when I stumbled over the ‘art class here’ information and decided to book it.

Poplar Union is my local community arts centre. I discovered it a few weeks ago when I was exploring the area. It’s nestled in a corner of Bartlett Park by the side of the canal and it’s really rather lovely. There’s a wonderful cafe supported by a huge bakery, where you can see the bakers beavering away in hair nets, knocking back dough and kneading on long, metal work surfaces. Racks of dough sit in plaited baskets, waiting to go into the oven. The smell is heavenly and all that industry makes you feel virtuous just by dint of sitting amongst it with your coffee and cake.

As well as feeding the belly, the Union aims to feed the soul. There are lots of classes and events, from paddling canoes on the canal to line dancing - not on the canal. I had been thinking of going there for breakfast but got side tracked by talk of art. Every Wednesday between 1.00 and 3.30 p.m. you can drop in and use the community space to make art. It’s run on a pay what you can afford basis and there are art supplies, books for inspiration and a lovely chap called Paolo who can help you figure out what you need and want to do.

I decided to give it a go and turned up with my donation and a sketch book full of chickens.

It all happens in a huge, light filled room, not too reminiscent of school, which is a good thing. It didn’t smell of school either. No weird, industrial floor polish and old PE kits, or worse, lunchtime cabbage and gravy. The aroma of mass catering and old people’s homes is not conducive to the creative process.

Refreshments were included and I was pleased to see that the biscuits on offer were chocolate Hobnobs. I always judge a gathering of any kind on the strength of the biscuits on offer. I think it sets the tone for the event to come. A full plate of Hobnobs is a good sign. Rich Tea is a sign that you’ve failed before you have even begun. No empires were ever built on a foundation of Rich Tea biscuits. They are the flavour of disappointment. A quality digestive on the other hand, speaks to me of the coming together of like minds and a strong work ethic. Any meeting that includes a fig roll is likely to involve the overthrow of the government. One day I will do a TED talk on biscuit diagnosis. People will flock from miles around.

There were only a few people there when I arrived and even though more people arrived throughout the session it never got busy. A group of older women sat together at a table, painting. They clearly knew each other well. Old conversations were picked up and enlarged upon. New things were discussed and mulled over. Occasionally art would be the topic, but not very often. Their hands and eyes were doing one thing, their mouths and brains another. I sat at a different table and let the chatter wash over me in waves. Sometimes I would be distracted by what they were discussing. Other times it faded to a gentle, background hum. They reminded me rather of the chickens I was painting, clucking and scratching about together comfortably like old friends do.

A man sat at a sewing machine whirring away. He spent more time taking it apart and putting it back together again than he did making, but that seemed to be the point. He was using the machine as a self soothing mechanism. Every now and again he would make an anguished ‘argh’ noise, as things didn’t go to plan. After this the machine would be taken apart and ‘fixed’, whereupon there would be a sequence of quiet whirring before the next ‘argh.’

Sewing machine man was also working on a photography project. He had brought in his latest photos to discuss with the facilitator and they spent some time shuffling and reshuffling the images as if they were playing an elaborate card game. It was a very personal project and seemed to have a lot to do with preserving important memories. Occasionally he would gather up one of the photos and traverse the room, holding it across his heart like a talisman. From time to time he would fix on a person, creeping up to show them the chosen picture, doling out bits of story, usually accompanied by; ‘He’s dead now.’ No matter how immersed in their own project they were, every person he came into contact with accepted the gift of his time and story and he seemed to get realer and more solid as the afternoon went on, like a photograph himself, developing in the kind regard of other people. It was rather melancholy and beautiful to watch.

An anxious young woman kept bobbing up, needing support and guidance, apologising for her neediness, but also unable to stop herself being needy. She seemed so anguished, but even she had moments of stillness and focus where the tension visibly eased across her taut back and shoulders as she leaned in to what she was making.

A young man came in quite late in the session. Newly arrived in the country, he had come from Croatia and wanted to draw portraits. He wanted to capture the faces of people he knew. There was an air of quiet desperation about him. Polite and contained, he looked like he expected to be kicked out at any moment. He hadn’t booked and had nothing to donate, but the facilitator had a quiet word with the administrator and within moments he was supplied with pencils and paper and a book about portraiture. By the time I left, he was deep into the work, utterly absorbed.

A woman in a hijab arrived, wanting to learn how to illustrate stories she was writing for her children. Heads bowed over books as various styles were pored over and discussed in terms of what would work.

Me, I sat at my table and spent two hours painting a picture of a chicken. It wasn’t a great painting and it wasn’t a terrible painting. It was recognisably a chicken, which made me happy. Mostly I just wanted what I got, which was time in which nobody wanted anything from me. The only question I got asked was whether I wanted a Hobnob, which I definitely did.

What I got, and didn’t expect to get was the gift of watching a quiet, gentle man bring together people from all walks of life and all backgrounds and abilities and use art to connect and help them. I should have known when I saw the Hobnobs that it would be an extraordinarily good experience.