As I write this, I am sitting in my spot at Art House.
This is my last day here. In a couple days, I will be gone.
Senses
Scent
Art House smells like warm spices—I think cardamom, rarely cinnamon, maybe nutmeg? It must be the latte syrups. Art House also, obviously, smells like espresso. It also smells like butter, and sometimes grease. Most of this is dependent on what people order.
I always seem to smell warm spice though, especially on my way in.
Sound
Art House sounds like a couple things: the baristas’ playlists and the ambient chatter. I can’t say any more on the music, because I must put that in a discussion, not a love post. The chatter can be annoying. The space encourages lengthy chats that can get under my skin. Often, I’d resort to my headphones when people would talk about philosophy or technology. I think I was annoyed that I couldn’t jump in.
Every now and then, a young man came in to play the piano. This really pissed me off (irrationally so! How wonderful a community piano is!). I was quite mean to him in my sketchbook once. He didn’t deserve that.
Art House has an old front door that groaned when I opened it, and hollow floors that echoed when I walked in wearing platforms.
Sight
Art House looks warm—the overhead light is a warm light. The tables are lined with lamps. The overhead light annoyed me sometimes, especially when I tried to use my camera. I preferred quieter days, when I’d be allowed to keep the lights off.
Art House looks like the two baristas I saw almost every morning. I am not good at speaking to people. I was able to break out my old ways a little bit thanks to them. I brought them candy and chocolate as a little holiday gesture once.
Art House’s main room has two sections, one with a generic exhibit, and the other with a monthly. There were a few photography exhibits too. These exhibitions simultaneously inspired me to make things, and solidified that I am not an artist.
Art House keeps its bar at the entrance of the house, in a room that’s lined with many strange knick knacks. By the wall here, a shelf is lined with teapots. One is an elephant. Also by the entrance is a tall floor shelf, the gift shop. Here, local artists could sell smaller things like prints, jewelry, and stickers.
One of the many wall decorations is a bird house with a couple of canaries. I didn’t notice them on my own. My mom said “baka and deda are here with you” when she visited in the summer.
Taste
Art House tastes like oat milk, nanaimo bars, and sriracha sauce.
During winter, Art House tasted like a peppermint brownie. When I bit into them, I would sometimes crunch a piece of candy cane. I don’t like candy cane, but these were very good.
Sometimes, the chocolate on the nanaimo bar would not give under my teeth and crush out the filling. Often, the chocolate would melt on my fingers. These annoyed me sometimes, but I appreciate it all the same.
Touch
Art House feels warm.
In the summer, Art House feels humid. I didn’t mind this. I liked the open windows and the fans.
In the winter, Art House could get cold, but this made the radiators wonderful.
Together
Last year, during the Ottawa Bluesfest, the barista asked me if I had any plans later. I told him no, but I might try to sit on the other side of the Ottawa river, across from the Lebreton flats, and see if I can hear Men I Trust—they were playing that night. He hadn’t heard of them before. I told him they were one of my favourites.
A little while later, between my music, I noticed I could hear Men I Trust. He had put on Equus Asinus. “Heavenly Flow” sounded like all of the sensations of Art House.