Waiting

A Photo Essay on Observation & Solitude

As you wait in cafes, stroll through museums, listen to bands in taverns, or eat confectionery at a bakery, the world opens itself for observation — and then reflection, forming trains of thought that coruscate. There is no point in pointing to patterns; the value is in inhabiting them, not from a distance, but by investing in them to yield returns on yourself. I never ask what the minimum deposit is for opening these checking accounts, or what the interest payments might be. Just being immersed in nothingness produces nothing unclassifiable. And yet it delights me — I hope it and the photo essay that accompanies it does the same for you.

Compton’s Coffee, San Francisco

As I sit outside waiting for a friend who never arrives due to parking issues, I notice the cafe’s layered lighting. The three barn lights outside, each with three small bulbs. Inside, gooseneck sconces hanging from an undulating black wire across a soffit that has recessed lighting. The cafe’s window reflects the evergreen pear tree; the illusion this creates is as if the sconces are hanging from the tree. A young Indian woman and her American boyfriend sit next to me; her Hindi accent when she talks to her mom, calling her “mummy”—an influence from the English Raj, indicating love—makes me realize the distance that the mom must sense between the Americanized daughter and her. She puts the boyfriend on the phone and he makes unctuous comments to mom. They leave and the woman who now sits at the table has a Goldendoodle and a copy of a sufficiently dull book, Connections Over Compliance: Rewiring Our Perceptions of Discipline by Lori L. Desautels. Is the book critiquing my observational skills?

Comstock Saloon, San Francisco

The interior has hushed lighting—shades of brown—along with well-chosen paintings and prints. It feels like you’ve walked into the modern version of a Southeast Asian nation. The best patrons worth watching are the ones on first dates who want to please and be pleased in return, dressed to be desirable, their mannerisms convivial. The bonhomie here uplifts my spirits. I wish I was wearing a suit with a fedora, Lauren Bacall at my side. A long wooden rotating fan that looks like an oar is designed to mesmerize patrons into keeping ordering drinks and food. The jazz band is curiously situated a level above the bar, as if they are the voice of God.

Bazaar Cafe, San Francisco

A charming house with a café for a living room. The interior felt like a high-end music store—guitars hung like shirts from clotheslines, and high-quality speakers filled the soundscape. The poetry reading was compelling but raw and unflinching, touching on cancer, marital strife, and pollution—and that’s when I wished this café could turn into a bar so I could order a few stiff drinks. I kept stealing glances at a young woman sitting next to me with a notebook, perhaps taking pointers. I tried to start a conversation, but it kept flickering and wispy, like trying to light a match for a cigarette I wanted with that drink.

Waystone, San Francisco

The interior design is worth gazing at: the paper ceiling looks like lace, designed from Japanese washi paper with precision slits that form honeycomb patterns. The overall aura is of a canopy, and hanging from it are paper lanterns. Across the universe of this embroidered Milky Way hang round planets and moons, and beneath it all, a jazz trio plays crowd-pleasing standards. Sitting next to me was a quiet young woman whose unflagging attention to the band made me think she perhaps knew the band members and their music. She certainly enjoyed trying many wines—I would have keeled over after one, having the tolerance of just a single beer. She was quiet as Garbo, but her silence didn’t speak to me. On a Sunday night, the coolest women in their coolest moods were on the hunt, dressed to win, and it struck me they left the scene all alone—perhaps onto the next audition. My favorite patron was a young bespectacled man sitting outside, absorbed in a Penguin Classic paperback. He seemed to have figured something out that I hadn’t.

Paul Thibeaux Gallery, San Francisco

My SFJAZZ fellow volunteer Jeff Bellerose’s work displayed here is an exercise in perspectives, and therefore the framing of compositions—which are views of looking at the world—interest and intrigue me. They made me think of Wayne Thiebaud but also Hopper’s iconic “Early Sunday Morning.” I kept wondering if Jeff is trying to possess a place so he can possess himself. I was impressed with his subtle takes on shadows that seem an inherent part of light; one contains the other. When it comes to including vocalists as part of jazz concerts, he is downright irascible and stubborn—he wants it to be all instrumental. But this exhibit lent him a humanity I didn’t realize he was capable of.

Bob’s Donuts, San Francisco

Much like Hinduism, Bob’s Donuts is a way of life. One has to make an appointment with the particular donut to order and eat it. Bob, the God of Treacle, is invisible; we look forward to glimpsing his sugary grace in his reincarnation at this new, larger, cafe. But what we get is something better: a young barista with long black hair all the way to her hips who grooves and sways and dances to the pop Spanish tunes. She brings joy to this otherwise listless warehouse of a place. I approach her to ask for the key to the bathroom, which she declares isn’t working, and apologizes. I didn’t really need the restroom, but I wanted to hear what she sounded like. And I liked how she said, 'It's out of order' — both in Spanish and English, kind and apologetic.

-Krishin

Other photos essays are on my substack.