Scenes From a Loft - Pt.2

About those building inspectors. They made cold calls, arriving at your studio unannounced. I didn’t know any better the first time and confessed outright to sleeping in my unit. The delicate arts of lying, deceit and subterfuge were new to me. Intimidated by authority, (they traveled in groups then, along with a fire warden) I couldn’t think fast enough to account for a bed and a makeshift clothesline strung with underwear, drying across my window. As years progressed, they tweaked knee-jerk anxiety even when I learned how to foil them. All mail was forwarded using my parents address. If I produced post-dated envelopes with my name on another address, then I must live elsewhere, right? In the event of follow-up queries, my parents were instructed to confirm and behave as if I still lived with them. They registered me as an additional household member in all elections and census data.

At the studio, futons converted into couches during the day. Paintings, both in progress and storage, dominated three quarters of the studio. My wardrobe was bad; T-shirts and jeans. No peplum skirts or frou-frou dresses or anything fussy that required more than wash and fold. I owned one each of mug, bowl, plate, pot, frying pan, and single burner hotplate although I did splurge doubles on cutlery.
When an entire building mobilized to thwart building inspections, many creative solutions arose. We were sometimes lucky enough to be warned by sympathetic managers. One neighbour suggested that everyone gather mattresses over to his unit, hire a nude model and have her pose on this mountain of beauty rest while all of us arranged ourselves around her in a life drawing session as inspectors passed through. Another tenant had a huge space where she designed costumes for theatre and shows. During inspection, we– blessed with her friendship, filled Glad garbage bags with our surplus clothes and temporarily donated them as "props" for her trade. This lovely, open studio had the misfortune to look like a park during an all-city strike. But what price friendship? She really was the only person who could legitimately have any excuse for more than the clothes on her back.

Other tenants conscripted the use of neighbours’ vans for mattress storage in the parking lot. One couple, the night before, erected a false dry wall, sealing their whippet and budgerigar alive and away from the rest of their studio. When inspectors arrived, all they saw was 250sq.ft. (drafting tables, floating arm lamps, and printer’s inks) of what was in reality 1000sq.ft. of better living. I loaned a giant painting of a grouper fish to the girl down the hall. She worked in the film industry and had a very nice, cozy loft space with all the comfort of, er, well– home. Since evidence of a bed ultimately condemned her, my fish painting was large enough to cover the whole door frame to her bedroom. Inspection took less than five minutes.

Retrieving parts of yourself on consignment throughout the building was a nuisance not to mention the patina of fear in anticipation of being caught. But all who engaged in the hoax felt it was worth the trouble just to get on with our lives. Cliché as it sounds, it brought people closer together. Despite the liabilities involved living in such outlaw circumstance: hand to mouth existence, health and safety risks, lack of amenities, opportunities for loneliness and depression to deepen unchecked– for many artists, loft living accomplished what they set out to gain from it. Studio rental became the first real gesture of commitment towards being an artist. To organize lifestyle and environment around the work instead of personal comfort, established its priority.

Now of course, being older, I crave personal comfort. I am grateful to have a decent place to recuperate from illness or fatigue. Since surviving the challenge of creative inspiration during that period, I discovered, when I finally moved out of warehouses, my artist didn’t stay behind. I can work anywhere. This includes a standard apartment that in the past, would have stifled me for lack of space, not to mention the inhibition about scuffling floors. Although storage is still an issue, it brooks no interference with an ability to work. Warehouse life provided also, initial membership to an artist community, creating a network for dialogue, support, information and contacts exchange. I’ve collaborated with other artists and mounted studio tours and group exhibitions. I’ve loaned out my tripod, borrowed a drill, exchanged cat-sitting for a shiatsu, and always had a companion for one of the daily meals. There was company in the misery of yet another rejection, congratulations for someone’s opening and collective annoyance when the roof was deemed unsafe as a lounge.