Artist Collective

The Craigslist ad said, "Female artist forming female artist collective in the East Village. The vision is to support each other in a large space to create and host events to promote our art. All types of artists encouraged to reply. Target move in date September 1st."

I moved to New York last week and found a place to live in a couple of days thanks to Craigslist. It’s been a good resource for me. I thought I'd try and see if I could find someplace where there are more artists. I get inspired when others are working on their craft, so this ad really caught my eye. I love the idea of living in the East Village but it is really expensive. What better way to do it?

I replied and an email dialogue started between several women. We agreed to meet at Whole Foods in the Bowery to see how we all would get along and start the process of finding our space. I was excited to meeting new artists and creating community. In my minds eye I envisioned a table surrounded with women with different colored hair, vintage tee shirts, paint stained jeans, dirty finger nails and wild head scarves. I pictured an eclectic group of women committed to living the creative life. Just like me.

When I arrived, I expected to find the table quickly. I looked for a group with colorful unnatural hair color. I saw nothing like that but I did see a group of five young women. They were leaning in discussing something over a piece of paper so I approached them and asked, "Is this the group for the artist collective?"

"Yes!" Karen replied. She coordinated the effort and it was her vision.

"Great!" I said. "I'm Linda" and I seated myself at the large table.

I must say I was a little thrown by how young they were. The oldest was probably twenty-six. I realize that I've been a little hyper-sensitive about my age since my last birthday but that is passing. I am the kind of person who looks back on her life and is proud that I've taken risks and done things that most people wouldn't even consider...but as I sat down I immediately began to feel like a sorority house mother.

The women introduced themselves and I repeated their names, Bonnie, Vicki, Connie, Kelly, and Karen. They were in discussion about house rules and so rather than interrupt them, I asked them to just fill me in a little later and I'd listen and ask questions as we continued. They agreed and went back to the discussion.

"What about cleanliness?" Bonnie asked. Good point, I thought to myself. The last thing I wanted to do was move into a place with ten other people who didn't clean-up after themselves.

"Yeah, we should be clean" said Connie.

"Yeah!" said Kelly.

"Well, since there will be so many of us, if we each kicked in ten bucks a week in our utilities I am sure we could afford a housekeeper who would keep the common areas, bathrooms and kitchen clean. Then we just take care of our own rooms." I say.

They all look at me blankly.

Karen gave me a cold hard stare and then said, "Well, I guess we could do it that way." I thought to myself, oh no. This is not going to be a good situation. Somehow I’d stepped on her toes and didn't know how I'd done so. Maybe she hated housekeepers. Maybe she had issues with another person coming into the space. Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut a bit longer to see what the vibe was like among the women before sharing.

It was then that I pulled my enthusiasm back at the idea of living in an artist collective and really looked at the women who were gathered around the table. Physically they all looked like they came out of the same J. Crew catalog. Straight, long black hair, fashion forward outfits be they baby-doll tops, shear layers over designer dress shorts, impeccable make-up, a stylish hat here, a thin belt there. I began to feel underdressed for the occasion in my black shorts and turquoise coffee stained tee shirt.

Karen changed topics and said, "What about overnight guests?" And all the ladies started nodding their heads cooing, oh yes! Overnight guests!

Bonnie says, "Well if we pay the thousand dollars or more and have our own rooms, it shouldn't be an issue."

"Yeah, if I'm paying that I should be allowed my guests" says Connie.

A thousand dollars? I couldn't afford that, so that meant I'd be sharing a room with one of these girls. Looking at their dress, listening to how they spoke I started doubting that there was a painter or sculptor in the whole bunch. I waited as I listened to them yammer on about how often they go out and what kind of guys they like to bring home and how easy it was dating in New York. Sitting in the energy of what it might be like to live with these girls, my stomach didn't feel so good.

Finally I asked the group, "So, what kind of artists is everyone?"

"I'm an actress and part-time model." said Karen.

"Actress" said Bonnie.

"Actress" said Kelly.

"Actress" said Connie.

"I'm a part-time actress too, but mostly I'm a Balloon Artist." said Vicki sheepishly.

Finally! An artist!

I nodded and smiled at Vicki. There was hope for this artist collective after all!

"I'm a writer and musician," I said. Ooh's and aah's came from the women. How exotic.

I asked Karen if any other painters or musicians or writers replied to her ad and she said she didn't know.

Bonnie noticed Connie's shoes and started asking what size she wore and where she got the shoes and would she be willing to share them sometime and that she had a lot of shoes that'd she'd be willing to share and then Karen and Vickie started talking about wearing dresses and how much they each liked their outfits and was she a size zero too? No? A size two? Yeah, sometimes that fit her too and wasn't it terrible when she was bloated and couldn't fit into her favorite skirt?

I sat in the chattering noise laughing to myself that art comes in all forms and it was unlikely that these women would be having avant-garde performance pieces in the space ala Yoko Ono. I asked my gut what I should do next. It yelled: GET OUT!

And that's what I did.

I stood up and said that I wasn't a good fit for their artist collective. I thanked the women for their time and wished them the best of luck with their aspirations and walked away. That bullet didn’t even graze me.

So much love,
All the way from over here...
Linda