Living as artist

In Greenpoint, Brooklyn, at the north end of Manhattan Avenue along the Newtown Creek, there is a large five-story factory building. Each floor is over 14,000 square feet.

My husband and I used to live in SoHo, Manhattan. But in 1984, the rent became too expensive. So we moved to this building where rent was cheaper. The landlord drew chalk lines on the fifth floor, dividing the space into sections about 1,200 square feet, with two windows each. That was our rental contract. Artists had to build their own walls inside the chalk lines to create living and working spaces.

Most artists picked clean, flat areas with nice ceilings. But my husband chose a messy space near the entrance and shared bathroom. It looked terrible, but it had a big advantage — we could connect to the shared bathroom pipes and build our own private bathroom and shower.

The view of Manhattan through the large windows was romantic and beautiful. But we had no idea what was waiting for us. One morning, my husband woke up with so many mosquito bites from the dirty creek that his face was unrecognizable! That was how we spent our first summer as newlyweds — fighting mosquitoes and waiting for winter.

But winter was not what we had hoped for. The cold wind came through the old, huge windows. Without heating, our space turned into a freezer. We missed the mosquitoes. We built a small plastic tent in one corner and used an electric heater. The view outside was still romantic, but we stayed far away from the windows, shivering in the cold.

We wore all our thick winter clothes indoors. But when we went outside, it actually felt warmer. Now I understand why homeless people wear winter clothes even in summer. It wasn’t just our bodies that were cold — our hearts were cold too. Even when spring came, we still couldn't take off those heavy winter clothes.

We lived in that freezing building for many years. Over time, our bodies got used to the cold. When we went to a warm place, it felt too hot. The building had high ceilings — each floor was like two normal floors — and no elevator. During that time, I became pregnant. My husband helped pull me up from above and supported me from behind as we climbed the stairs.

If we hadn’t had a child, maybe we would still be living there, paying low rent. But having a child changed everything. It was like a strong teacher giving us a wake-up call. I don’t know where we found the strength and courage, but for our child, we flew high and far toward a new life.

Being an artist sometimes feels crazy.

“There’s no time to make money because we need time to paint. And we need a big space, but we don’t earn enough.”

That is the reality for most artists. It doesn’t make sense, and it’s hard to survive. Even after decades, many artists still don’t get any reward. But still, we can’t stop painting — maybe it’s like being addicted to a drug.

My husband and I are still painting. We haven’t given up on our artist life. Sometimes we cry, feeling both the pain of the past and the happiness of today.