When I was a kid growing up in South London, I loved the Usborne Detective’s Handbook. One of my favorite pages was this one about how to “set up an office” (see below)—including advice to keep a mirror above the door so you could see any “crooks” staring in the window behind your back. I love the way the illustrator, Colin King, put in loads of different details. As a kid I could totally imagine converting my chest of drawers to hold “identikits”, “MOs” and “criminal records.” It was brilliant.
I always fantasized about being a detective, one of the reasons I loved investigative reporting. But I also assumed that in real life, I’d have to work for a boss to make a living. Now, I’m my own boss. Just like a private detective! And I can pick and choose my clients. It’s an incredible luxury, even if it is stressful sometimes. I feel like I’m getting away with something naughty, most days.
That’s my actual office in the picture, at the top. So. Show me yours? Then do a bit of explaining? I promise to use it in one of my newsletters as material if you manage to make it interesting enough. “Here’s my bottle of bourbon,” you know. “Here’s my gun.”
My office feels energetic and a bit mercurial, which I’d like to think captures my essence on my best days. One of the biggest luxuries of consulting is I can be myself. If I want to take a nap at 11 o’clock in the morning on the couch on the right, I can. If I want to spend the day thinking about random stuff, I can. If we can afford the baby’s formula and the rent, then we’re golden. And if can write about subjects I think are interesting, that’s a bonus. This week on top of client work, I wrote a thing about burnout, and another thing about how working less can save the planet. I’ve also been reading Haruki Murakami’s 1980 novel, Pinball, about a guy who starts a translation business. It’s nice to read about how the character runs things.
My office has a guitar in it. I sit on my exercise ball and occasionally work on playing a song, badly. This week I’ve been learning Joni Mitchell’s Case of You, on the basis that it’s important to do things in life you suck at. I also ride the exercise bike and watch squash rallies on the Internet when I feel the need to burn off manic energy. It helps me avoid the feeling of being cooped up.
My son, Freddy, has a crib in case I’m juggling his child care and need to concentrate. I know I can put him inside for 20 minutes with his squiddly toy and hit a deadline if I need to. Then I’ll take him for a nice long walk afterwards.
There’s a tool box, Mr. Fix-it, and a yoga mat, Mr. Flexible, and a seven-foot-wide picture of a rhinoceros I bought in New Orleans, Mr. Nuts. It was painted by a depressed garbage collector in Richmond, Virginia. Something about it just spoke to me immediately. Since then, I’ve been in touch with the artist, Clay Blancett, who also wrote a beautiful novel about his experiences picking up trash. There’s also a fat plant from the garden district to make me feel like I’m in a Henri Rousseau painting being stalked by a tiger. And a poster from David Hockney’s recent exhibition at the Royal Academy. He painted the whole thing on his iPad. I found it inspiring. As you can tell, I have an active imagination. I think I would have enjoyed art school more than doing an English degree, but my curse is to have been born most gifted as a writer.
If you can call this gifted. Chortle, chortle.
On the walls there is also a clip from the New York Times describing our wedding, and on the floor, a rug I bought on Etsy from a guy in the Middle East. There are pictures of my wife and me, and also my parents, and their parents, and their parents’ parents. I like the idea that my great grandfather, whose mustache was far superior to my own, would be bemused by my working life. He nearly went down with his ship in the English Channel in World War One when it was sunk by the Germans. I, meanwhile, am steering a ship of my own. But I doubt I possess his bravery. Honestly, I often think about how my own achievements pale in comparison to the scale of the universe, but every now and then I am grateful that my Great Granddad learned how to swim. And I consider him heroic.
My desk is a set of bookshelves from Ikea that I cut in half with a saw. It’s the right height for the window which overlooks Perry Street and Carrie Bradshaw’s apartment from the TV show, Sex And The City, which they’re re-filming, yet again, right now, for another series.
I am both very present in my office, and also, I’m kind of…not-there. Like, the thing that I feel defines me as a person is both of my office but also beyond it. And yet perhaps that is wishful thinking. Maybe I really am just the contents of this room. In which case…I’m almost okay with that.
Speaking of esoteric thoughts. This week, I’ve been enjoying a poem by Wendell Berry called Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front. There are some amazing lines in it. Like these:
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
Wonderful, isn’t it?
Now, show me your office! (*You can get in touch at matthewcharlesdavis at gmail dot com).
