The vibe in the room is light and open, with a mix of nervous energy and laughter as participants begin to paint. Some arrive hesitant, but by the end, many are comparing finished portraits, swapping stories, and taking selfies with their creations – a quiet kind of celebration.

Almost without fail, Tran says, people will smile in amazement when they first see the sketch of themselves that they’re about to paint.

“They’re just like, ‘Oh my god, that's me. I’ve never seen myself as like a painting before,’ and then they actually get down to doing it and finishing it and having it in their home,” they say. “It’s just such a prideful kind of experience, because that’s you. That's not a sunset. That's not a random beach scene. It’s you.”

Making their living like this, says Tran, is an unexpected delight.

“It’s kind of insane and unprecedented, you know, especially in my family. I grew up in Vietnam,” they say. “My parents [who] grew up during the war, my grandparents - nobody even had the opportunity to ask themselves what they wanted to do with their lives, let alone actually do it.”

Like any calling, it’s not without its challenges, of course.

“The worst part, I think, is just not having a sense of direction. There’s no playbook for being an independent artist. You kind of just wake up every day and you imagine the tasks you have to do,” says Tran.

Tran isn’t alone in discovering that playful creativity can evolve into a livelihood. Across the city, other artists-turned-entrepreneurs are building spaces where adults can reconnect with their imagination – and each other. Kristin Ledgett, co-owner of The Knit Café, followed a similar path, finding joy not just in making things, but in helping others do the same.

Unlike Tran, Ledgett took a more traditional route into the arts in university, though running a craft-supply store and teaching space wasn’t part of her plan.

Back in the early 2000s, she was a textile artist, and she and some roommates ran a knitting club out of their house. They soon got the impression there was a need for a community space for makers to get help on projects and find inspiration. One thing led to another and in 2003, The Knit Cafe was born. According to Ledgett, it’s where folks can “express a creative side and get that little lift of joy of learning something.”

The shop, now on Dundas West, sells supplies – “we only have natural fibres in the store and are pretty invested in sourcing things that are ethically made,” Ledgett shares – and offers textile classes in knitting, crocheting, punch needling, felting, weaving, rug hooking and more.

“I enjoy feeling helpful. It’s not brain surgery or anything, but it’s really nice when somebody comes in with a problem and you’re able to solve their problem and they get a boost from that,” she says. “It feels really good when you can help someone in that way.”

Whether it’s yarn or acrylic, portraits or punch needles, both Tran and Ledgett are proof that creativity doesn’t have to be serious to be meaningful. Sometimes, the most radical thing we can do is make something – just for the joy of it.

“The more we get away from how we used to traditionally connect with each other, the more it’s needed to have spaces to connect in those traditional ways,” Ledgett says.

Tran agrees. “It’s become this little community I had no idea was going to cultivate itself. It is queer, it is body positive, it is all inclusive and it’s just a safe space for adults to come and play with creativity. I don’t think we are encouraged to do that enough.”