There was an advert in the early Nineties, where a huge, furry, legless blue monster bounds through somebody’s house, and comes to rest softly on their shoulders in a huge, cosy hug. It was for Bachelors Cup a Soup (“hug in a mug”) and while that particular soup never quite replicated that feeling, the Photobook Cafe in Shoreditch might just be the real-life equivalent.
The first time I visited was on a rainy afternoon in September. Starving, I spotted that the café had a kiosk in front, with a jovial fellow with a large grey beard (Ian) keeping dry under the black awning which protrudes from the pale brick of the building. Grilled cheese, soup, the blackboard proffered — perfect. I ordered the mushroom soup and was ushered inside to pay. This is where the hug really started. Do you want your toast in triangles, halves or fingers, Ian asked. What a nurturing question. You’ll want fingers, he tells me, smiling — better for dipping in your cup of soup. He was right; and those hot buttery slices dipped into a creamy mushroom soup were completely delicious.
The food wasn’t even the reason I had dropped by — I’d heard this was a great place to while away an afternoon looking at the unique and unusual photobooks which give the café its name. Warm and quite dark inside, with wooden floors and industrial-looking shelving, plus Moroccan-style lanterns hanging from the ceiling, it’s reminiscent of the slightly womb-like nature of a photography dark room. The place was busy, and buzzy, with a real mix of characters and ages — chatting groups, a few on laptops, and a couple leafing through a magazine together that they had chosen while they drank a coffee and escaped the rain. There was low-key soul music playing, moving on to some hip hop-lite.
Cavern of curiosity
I noticed that in one corner there was a set of stairs going down into the basement. Cordoned off, it leads to a downstairs gallery, which opens for semi-regular events, exhibitions or private hire. A recent screening and exhibition was called “Steppers Women of Colour Walking Football Club”. A regular visitor tells me that among the exhibitions and zine launches, one evening there was a party for photographer Roo Lewis’s book Port Talbot UFO Investigation Club, where they had an Elvis impersonator. Could a more abstract event exist?
The gallery takes submissions for exhibitions from amateur photographers — currently they’re taking them for one opening on Halloween under the theme gorecore, for which the uber-cool fashion photographer (and boyfriend of FKA twigs) Jordan Hemingway is a guest judge. From artist shows and talks to creative workshops, screenings and book launches, it’s all going on. The events, they say, are designed to “bring photographic art creators and fans together to learn and connect”.
Certainly there’s a very “together” feel, as passionate hobbyists and professionals mingle. I sat on a high stool beside the window, watching the cook outside make toasties (the daily special seemed very popular — with cheddar, gochujang, spring onions and sesame on sliced white). Behind me, people milled around, choosing photography books and magazines from the shelves lining the walls, to sit with while they drank coffees and beers. What a glorious place to be, totally at odds with my normal rushed pace and takeaway coffee.
Nobody here was sitting on Instagram to pass the time — in fact, my phone felt like an accoutrement which I no longer wanted, as I instead sat and read, and pored, and flicked, and delved. I leafed through titles as diverse as Kids of Cosplay, Hackney Riviera by Nick Waplington and Bucharest by Tudor Prisăcariu. The beauty of a photobook is the entry into another world, while you sit in yours. Totally transported into another country, era, a literal snapshot in time. As the French photographer Robert Doisneau once said, “The marvels of daily life are exciting: no movie director can arrange the unexpected that you find in the street.”
All the books and magazines have been donated by either the photographer or publisher — and should you wish to buy any, they have a sister place around the corner called Rapid Eye, which sells many of the titles — and much more. I got chatting to the chap beside me, who had just bought a new lens from there, and was very pleased with some new film he’d purchased, too. It’s not like other cafés, where people keep to themselves; there’s a sense that everyone here has a shared passion.
Closest thing to Berlin bliss
There are always edgy-looking analogue photographers hanging around waiting for their developed film to dry in the Rapid Eye darkroom, too. Closest thing to Berlin bliss The second time I visited, one sunny evening, I saw throngs of arty-looking people spilling out into the street, animated and chatting, and drinking cocktails (at two for a tenner, it got rowdy). Some were getting Yard Sale pizzas delivered. The assortment of people moved in and out of the café, taking a seat on the bistro seating outside, down to the basement to see the exhibition, upstairs for a glass of the reasonably priced house wine, into paved Leonard Street for a touch of European-style street milling. I felt like I was in Berlin and it was heaven.
This is the sort of independent, quirky, rare place which people think doesn’t exist in London any more. Well, it does. It’s cult, it’s niche, but everyone is welcome.
