At the northern end of Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, right by the Newtown Creek, stands a massive, five-story former dye factory. Each floor spans over 14,000 square feet.
In 1984, my husband and I were living in Soho, Manhattan. Unable to keep up with the soaring rent, we moved into this run-down but cheap building. The super drew lines in chalk on the fifth-floor warehouse ground to divide the space. Each plot was about a thousand square feet—just enough space to fit two windows. The rental agreement was simple: artists had to pick a spot, build their own walls over those chalk lines, and turn it into a place to both work and live.
Most artists chose spaces with even floors and clean ceilings. But my husband’s choice was different. He insisted on leasing a spot right next to the shared restroom at the entrance of the floor, even though the ceiling and floors were a complete mess. While everyone else had to share that public restroom, we were able to secretly connect pipes to it, giving us our very own private bathroom and shower.
The Manhattan skyline framing our massive windows was incredibly romantic. But we had no idea that this romance would end after just one night. The next morning, I woke up to find my husband's face swollen beyond recognition. He had been mercilessly bitten by swarms of mosquitoes breeding in the nearby creek. That was our first summer as newlyweds—a fierce battle against mosquitoes, praying every single day for winter to arrive.
Yet, the winter we so desperately waited for was colder and harsher than we could have ever imagined. Piercing winds blasted through the gaps of the large, old windows, quickly turning our unheated space into a freezer. In that freezing cold, we actually found ourselves missing the mosquitoes. Eventually, we built a small plastic greenhouse in a corner of the room, set up a small electric stove inside, and huddled together. We stayed away from the windows we had once admired for their romance, shivering and surviving on nothing but each other's warmth.
We wore every thick piece of clothing we owned, layered one on top of the other. Ironically, whenever we stepped outside, the outdoor air actually felt warm. It was only then that I truly understood why the homeless wear heavy winter coats even in the summer. When the warm spring finally arrived, we still couldn't bring ourselves to take off those heavy layers.
We spent three years in that refrigerator of a building. Over time, our bodies adapted so completely to the freezing air that whenever we entered a warm place, we felt suffocated. In this building, where the ceilings were twice as high as normal and there was no elevator, I unexpectedly became pregnant. As my belly grew heavier, my husband would pull me from above and support my back from behind, helping me climb those steep, high stairs day after day.
If we hadn't been blessed with a child, would we still be living in that cheap, lonely building? Becoming parents was like a sharp crack of a teacher's whip, jolting us out of our complacency. I don't know where that superhuman strength and courage came from, but for the sake of our baby, we spread our wings and flew forcefully toward a new world, soaring higher than ever before.
Living as an artist might be the most reckless thing one can do in this world. "Because you spend all your time painting, you have no time to make money. Yet, without making money, you still instinctively crave a massive space to work." Enduring this contradictory, seemingly impossible reality is the destiny of an artist. Even after dedicating decades of their lives to this path, most artists never receive any material reward. And yet, the reason we can never lay down our brushes is because of the profound addiction of art—a pull that only digs deeper the harder you try to break free.
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