Last night, I went to the big studio in the sky. I have this dream of live-in/work space that’s a cross between pollard oak and condo. Built into the tree, there are two walls made entirely of sliding glass doors. In summer they open completely. Oriole, finch and cedar waxwing pass through as easily as breeze and light–sweet radiance, winks through layers of new leaf. I catch whiffs of chlorophyll made from photosynthesis. I open my mouth and swallow clouds. Paintings splash themselves on canvas and all I have to do is turn them at each angle of sun passage like potted geraniums. I marry a building inspector and never fear eviction notice again.
In reality, my earthly studios had a lot more dust. Located in warehouses in the garment district, they either lacked heat or had too much heat. Noise and toxic fumes prevailed, especially from the neighbourhood abattoir, lead plant and sewage treatment facility. Forget about privacy or quiet reflection time. Innocent manufacturers across the hall could just as easily doff their day job disguise as makers of musical instruments and instead, gather employees together as a band at night.
The first studio I rented was in a former coffin factory. Today, it still has nails embedded in the floors from parts assembly. It was 600 square feet of open rough space: no plumbing, no kitchen, no bathroom in the unit, and only a handful of outlets. But those windows! That ceiling! The mess I could make... Of course it was illegal to live there, but studio culture was a challenge of improvisation as well as endurance. The best way to determine an appropriate warehouse was good old espionage. Pick a building, wander through it. References helped from other artists. But skulking around halls or units gave a good indication of whether or not you belonged there. (I took courage from one address when I noticed a girl coming out of the common washroom with a lavender towel on her just-washed hair). Asking personable tenants worked too although I led up to my real motives with genuine rent queries first.
Landlords and property managers required more tact. After discussing lease and vacancies, I broached the topic by asking if there was 24hr. access to my unit at all times. If informed that both the front doors lock at 5pm. and the heat shuts off automatically while security patrols the building, it was safe to assume that I definitely, absolutely, could not live there. However, if they answered yes, it was reasonable to believe that while they hardly offered to move my mattress in themselves, there was enough margin of excuse for my presence, should fate find me asleep in the studio at 4:00am. Artists, after all, can and do work through the night.
As for basic survival needs, I bought a bar fridge which organized sustenance based on size alone. Never bought cauliflower or Swiss chard– too big. I also ate in restaurants a lot. In a later studio, I had a bathtub installed. With this, I washed body, dishes and laundry in one fixture (but not all at once–damn). Some drawbacks involved removing dirty plates from the tub and placing them on the floor before I could kneel under the faucet to wash my hair, but it could be done. Prior to this, I carried toiletries to friends and family or visited a bathhouse. Nowadays, I never, ever take my present apartment for granted. Three sinks are wealth compared to none. When friends visit, I invite them to look inside my full-sized fridge and admire how much food is in there. I love the way juice cartons fill in the doors, how vegetables throw themselves on top of each other, the way a whole cake sprawls across a shelf. I play with thermostats in different rooms just to feel in control of the temperature.
Every warehouse I’ve lived in had a fire. It is a hazard of commercial/industrial spaces. Yet although property and possessions have been damaged, I’ve never known anyone to suffer harm. The threat was not that flames would barbecue your masterpiece, but that the automatic sprinklers would drown them. Pipes frozen in winter could also burst, showering canvas in black goop– deadly if you were a magic realist; serviceable if you did colour field abstractions.
In one giant dilapidated space, I woke up at night to urgent pounding on all doors. A young man, dressed in black leather (hat, jacket, pants, boots) and silver studs, roused the building. Holy smoke– it was real. The halls were clogged with that char-broiled pungency, dispelling any myth of false alarm. I grabbed winter coat and boots, fleeing down the common stairwell only to have smoke thicken as I reached the main foyer entrance next to the loading dock. Fortunately, I remembered another exit, turned and escaped. We found out later that the blaze was actually in the industrial disposal bin located on the loading dock platform. What amazed me, upon ejecting outside, were these denizens gathered on the street. I realized they were my neighbours. This was the late 70's, early 80's. Punk rock and New Wave was the phenomenon then. In panic and confusion, I thought I’d wandered into a nest of vampires. Black capes, magenta eyeshadow, green spiked hair, nose rings, gothic silver jewellry, and black leather milled around the building; everyone smelling like cured ham. I gravitated towards a couple I recognized. Along with myself, we were gasping remnants of post-sixties flower children. The wife and I were the only ones wearing glasses. She had hints of homespun flannel peeking out from underneath a trenchcoat. I also noticed the property manager, stupefied at the number of tenants present. She spoke to the fire marshall, while surveying this odd blend of regular citizens flung in the midst of a hangman’s ball. After this, the building was slated for demolition and renovation.
To be cont’d...
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