Signed in at the painters' club, and why it is nothing like Mayfair

A club that is still about the work

The Chelsea Arts Club was founded in 1891 by a group of painters, Whistler among them, who wanted somewhere in Chelsea to eat, drink and argue that was not one of their own studios. Early in the twentieth century it settled into a low white building on Old Church Street, a couple of minutes' walk off the King's Road, and it has stayed there ever since, with a garden at the back that members talk about the way other people talk about their children.

Its membership is still drawn mainly from people who make things: painters, sculptors, architects, designers, writers, musicians and photographers. That is not a line from a brochure. You can tell from the clothes at the bar, from the conversations going on around you, and from the fact that almost nobody in the room is paying the slightest attention to who else has just come in.

What being signed in actually means

There is no way into the club except as a member or as a member's guest. A member brings you in, writes your name in the book and is answerable for you for the rest of the evening. You are not a customer, and the distinction matters: you are in somebody's house on their word, and whatever you do there is attached to their name rather than yours.

Every club sets its own limit on how many guests one member may sign in, and its own rules about telephones, photographs and which rooms guests may use. Your host will know them. Ask before the evening rather than at the door, particularly if you are planning a table of four, and follow whatever you are told without discussion. A guest who argues with a club rule does lasting damage to the member who brought him, and none at all to the rule.

How it differs from a Mayfair house

The members' houses of Mayfair are built around a door. There is a list, somebody holding it, a dress code enforced with a smile, and inside, rooms arranged so that people can see who else got through. Being signed in there is a small public event, and a companion at your side is part of how you are seen that evening.

Old Church Street works the other way round. Nobody is watching the door, because the people who matter to the room are already at the bar talking about somebody's exhibition. The dress runs from paint on the cuffs to a suit worn by someone who came from a meeting and now regrets it. What is valued is being interesting to a stranger for a few minutes, and what is quietly disliked is any sign of display. Arrive without fuss, dress a notch plainer than you would in W1, and let the conversation find you.

That changes what a companion is for. In Mayfair she is often part of an entrance. Here she is simply another person at the table, and the best version of the evening is the one in which the member's friends talk to her about films or tiled floors for twenty minutes and never once wonder how the two of you know each other.

A table of four

The usual shape of this evening is a member who is a friend, the guest he is signing in, and two companions to make the table four. That is exactly what two names, one evening is for. Each woman is booked on the ladder in full, so a four hour dinner is £900 for each of them, and each is asked separately before anything is held. Either is free to say no without explaining herself, and Tamsin will say plainly if one of the pair you asked for is not free.

Two things must be settled before you write. First, that the member is happy to sign in four, since it is his book and his name. Second, the hour: clubs of this kind keep their own kitchen times, and a dinner that starts late may turn out not to be a dinner at all. Give Tamsin the time the member suggests, the street and the name the two women should give at the door, and she will do the rest.

Each woman is handed her own fee in person when she arrives, before you go in together, and after that nothing more is said about it by anyone.

Two who belong in the room

The two companions should be able to talk to artists without pretending to be artists. From the raven haired drawer, Milena is the first name to try. She cares about design in every form, from a tiled hall to a chair made to be admired rather than used, and in person she is far quieter than her height suggests, which is how the people at this club prefer their guests. Danielle lives close by in South Kensington, knows the antique shops of west London and is precise, dry and entirely unimpressed by display.

The two work well together, both being content to listen for the first half hour and neither needing to be the centre of the table. If one of them is unavailable, Karolina trained as a dancer and holds her own in a room of performers without saying a great deal, which in a club full of talkers is a considerable asset.

Leaving by the river or by the road

Old Church Street runs south to the Embankment, where Chelsea Old Church stands beside the river with the statue of Thomas More in front of it, and on a mild night the walk down to the water is the right end to an evening that has been all conversation. North, the street meets the King's Road, where a taxi is never far away and the hotels towards Sloane Square are a few minutes' drive.

If somebody you know from another part of your life crosses the room to say hello, and at a club like this it is quite likely, the note on the acquaintance at your table covers the whole of what to say. It is shorter than you might expect, and it works as well in Chelsea as it does in St James's.