Andrew-bucks

I’m sitting outside in the “cafe” my brother built on the side of his house for me. While I was in college, I used to study at Starbucks in town. Eventually, I set up my room to resemble the cafe environment: plants, music, comfortable seating, etc. My brother and I (we went to the same university) named it “Andrew-bucks.” In an attempt to provide a quiet place for me to work (or possibly escape the terror of his three year old), he recreated that space. In those days, French press coffee—and what I’m drinking now—was in style. However, it’s been overthrown by pour over.

Years ago, when I went to visit a friend in Tokyo, Blue Bottle Coffee had just arrived. She had asked me if it was “third wave coffee,” a term that I was unfamiliar with at the time. Basically, there is Folgers, first wave; Peet’s and Starbucks, second wave; Blue Bottle (and many others), third wave.

I could have made a guess, and probably did having known Blue Bottle, but the idea of third wave essentially is a movement that treats coffee like an artisanal food item—high quality beans, direct trade, particular methods of roasting and brewing, you get the idea. Although, I’m not sure of the distinction of direct trade (more about the bean) versus fair trade (more about improving the lives of farmers) within the third wave coffee movement. And I suppose I don’t entirely care (don’t I though?) as long as I’m drinking quality coffee because I’m, let’s admit it, pretentious. 

I entirely judge a coffee shop by its branding and ambiance. If the cafe doesn’t have a $20k espresso machine, a minimalist logo (although that’s a little tough because I must admit, Starbucks did pretty well), and decor that might suggest you’ve just stepped into any place in Copenhagen, then I’m probably not going. 

I had considered taking a photograph of myself out here drinking my coffee but then I realized that I’m drinking out of an appalling mug. You know the type. It says (any mug that says anything I’ll regard with disdain), “The Best Thing To Do in the Morning is Not Talk to Me.” 

And this is the most unfortunate characteristic about me. I’m a snob. That’s the easiest way to put it. I’m one of those assholes who won’t like something unless I’ve discovered it myself. This really is where I would or could have lost out in life. However, I have impeccable taste…so I’m doing fine. That wasn’t always the case.

About eighteen years ago now, I moved to Williamsburg, Brooklyn, the epicenter of hipsterdom. And truth be told, I fit right in. I had facial hair, wore vintage clothes, liked things ironically, and came from an upper middle class background. However, I was in a difficult place emotionally. What I really wanted to be was an artist. I credit (or blame) my roommate during that period. Ben Eckman.

There is an infographic called Geeks vs. Hipsters that I think describes a very similar distinction between hipsters and artists: “A geek’s love is genuine while a hipster’s is trendy.” I certainly can’t speak for the world of hipsters (in fact, most hipsters would never admit they’re a hipster and hate other hipsters so they probably wouldn’t care what I say) but I think the real desire of the majority of hipsters is to love something genuinely.

I suspect that a further distinction could be made that many hipsters are foxes while geeks and artists are hedgehogs. The concept, originally from the Ancient Greek poet, Archilochus, is that “a fox knows many things, but a hedgehog knows one big thing.” This distinction could get messy so I’ll end the thought experiment with simply the idea that it takes genuine love of some thing—to position it as the one big thing—to ever master it. And artists tend to do just that while hipsters, myself included, don’t quite have the attention span for it and prefer to know many things.

While I had met Ben briefly a year before we were to become roommates in Brooklyn, I didn’t quite know his genuine love for painting (images of his work above) until I moved in that day in July, eighteen years ago. Ben wore wooden clogs, jeans covered in paint, and a yellow v-neck, also covered in paint. His bedroom, from what I recall, contained stacks of books on art, painting supplies, a mattress, and walls that were painted canary yellow. His world was art…and very yellow.

Ben’s hair was (and still is, although he tells me he is losing it) fiery red and his eyes knew only how to stare. And if you’re interested in what he’s interested in, art, he’s the best kind of teacher. It was in this time period that my life shifted, largely because of him. At the time, I was interested in writing. Within a month, film. Within another month, photography. I was all over the place.

I always had the sense that he pitied my aimlessness and lack of focus, however, he stayed consistent with his advice. “If you want to become a photographer, take photographs everyday,” or…“If you want become a filmmaker, watch a film everyday.” He knew, way before I would truly understand it, that it simply takes dedication and daily practice to master something. Dedication is a tricky thing though. You have to know what you want to do and love that thing, despite the challenges and failures, to stay dedicated. I always envied that about him: his dedication and love for painting.

In those days, I spent much of my time in bars and coffee shops. I liked the idea better of being a writer probably better than actually writing. I didn’t know how to express myself. Nor should I have necessarily, I was young and ignorant (now I’m just old, ignorant, and stubborn). Sitting outside in “Andrew-bucks” this morning reminded me of Ben and the person I wanted to be. I certainly didn’t expect to be drinking French press coffee still (I prefer pour over), in Florida, spending my days burning my testicles off with my laptop…but at least I’m writing everyday and suffering for it. And I have Ben to thank. Now go check out his work and tell him hello for me.