HOSPITALITY IS: Why working in hospitality makes me a better writer

Art writing, journalism, and research don’t pay my rent. Do you know what does?

Hospitality.

Whenever I mention this to certain arts-world careerists, they give me that look; the one that conveys both pity and disdain. I’ve been told to intern, volunteer, ‘get experience’ [translation: work for free], and that my CV isn’t focused enough. Meanwhile, hospitality makes me a better writer. They’re just far too up their own arses to see it.

There are days when I wonder if I’ve completely misread the brief. If I should’ve picked a more ‘sensible’ degree, or at least pretended to enjoy networking events. But hospitality never made me feel stupid for wanting to work. The art world can’t always say the same.

Hospitality supported me through university, helped me make friends when I moved cities, and it keeps me connected to my community. More than that, it has trained me: shaped how I write, see and think.

Let me explain.

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HOSPITALITY IS communication

My job is basically drafting and delivering lines all day. ‘Yes, we do have decaf.’ ‘No, you can’t have an extra-hot Americano, it’s literally boiling water.’

I’m forced to communicate with clarity, speed and kindness - even when exhausted, even when someone wants the entire menu described like it’s Noma. By the time I sit down to write about art, my voice is already warmed up.

This is why my writing is clear without being condescending, accessible without being dull [I hope]. I don’t fear being ‘too basic’ because hospitality has taught me that clarity is not a compromise but a courtesy. If I can explain why the Steak and Eggs can’t be made vegetarian, I can explain why a sculpture works, or an exhibition absolutely doesn’t.

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HOSPITALITY IS emotional intelligence

I can tell a lot about a customer from the moment they walk through the door. The pace of their steps. The way they scan the room. Whether they’re about to cry, complain, smile, or flirt.

I read artworks the same way - quickly, intuitively and with attention to atmosphere: the temperature of a room, the tension in a jawline, the way someone hovers before committing. I can sense how a space behaves, how a piece holds itself, how people respond to it; not how they say they respond, but how their bodies betray them. If I can decode a customer who says ‘I’m fine’ while vibrating with rage, I can certainly decode a curator who insists an exhibition is ‘playfully antagonistic’ when it’s just badly lit.

I don’t need the art world to tell me what to think. I’m watching the room.

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HOSPITALITY IS multitasking

Balancing a full‑time management job with a writing practice isn’t heroic; it’s muscle memory. Hospitality trains you to keep ten tabs open in your brain without crashing. I can write under pressure, on deadlines, while juggling multiple projects, opinions, and other people’s emotions [all while appearing to have a lovely time]. It teaches you to perform calmness even when your internal monologue is a small grease fire.

Art writing often demands the same split focus: contradictory ideas, multiple narratives, tiny details, big picture. Hospitality taught me how to do that without combusting.

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HOSPITALITY IS problem-solving

Have you ever had to unblock a sink full of sick with a fork [true story], invented an ingredient substitute on the spot, and consoled someone because their spicy margarita was ‘too spicy’?

Exactly.

Hospitality teaches you to improvise before things become disasters. Writing about art requires the same agility: new angles, reframed ideas, navigating conceptual messes.

If I can handle bodily fluids and emotional meltdowns before 10 am, I can handle a tricky exhibition.

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HOSPITALITY IS teamwork

Nothing that bonds people like being in the shit on a busy day. You learn who crumbles, who swears, and who reorganises the cutlery as a coping mechanism.

I know my coworkers: their rhythms and their breaking points. Hospitality teaches instinctive collaboration, anticipating needs and supporting without being asked.

Writing looks solitary, but it isn’t. Behind every published piece is a network: editors, artists, curators, friends, readers. Trust is the currency of good writing.

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HOSPITALITY IS adaptability

I do the same tasks every day, but no two shifts are the same. The variables of customers, moods, crises, weather, and deliveries shift constantly. You learn to adapt without thinking.

Art writing demands the same flexibility. Each artwork, exhibition and deadline requires a different version of you. Hospitality trains you to respond to the world as it is, not as you expect it to be.

Hospitality taught me something the art world never did: that attention is a form of care. Whether I’m noticing a shaking hand or the way a sculpture leans into the light, it is the same muscle: paying attention until something reveals itself.

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HOSPITALITY IS really that deep

So yes, hospitality pays my rent. But it also pays for something the art world can’t: the way I see, think, write, and move through the world. If certain people can’t recognise that, that’s fine. I’ll be right here: working, writing, and actually paying my rent.