the times they are a'changing

I drove down Third Street today and into Hunter’s Point. The violence of poverty reverberates here, it’s a district my son is afraid to come to, one which the hungry homebuyers give wide berth. It’s predominately black. It’s also houses the largest colony of artists in the Bay Area, oddly located in an old navy shipyard. Studios are cheap here, out beyond cell phone range, safe at the moment from gentrification. There was a time that North Beach and the Haight teemed with artists studios. Now even Ferlinghetti, the poet king of Columbus Street, has his painting studio out here. The barrack buildings are rough and rickety, and even full of artists, there’s a feeling of dislocation in the air.

As I drove down Third, I noticed that the new street car tracks are almost done. This street car will run from downtown thru Hunters Point. Once that train is up and running, the division between Hunters Point and the rest of the city will begin to erode. I give it a year until you can hop off the train near Evans and get a cup of coffee costing over two bucks with the option of soymilk. So interesting how coffee, that dark liquid amphetamine, is such a marker for everything we relegate to that term “gentrification”. For every action, there is a reaction, for every small change, ripples of transformation spread out. My guess is the coming of the streetcar will change even the ambiance in the shipyard of artists.

I was going to a holiday celebration that some of the artists were throwing, having been invited by a new acquaintance, a lesbian my age who’s art I luckily like. Hanging out for the afternoon with her and the other artists in her building is a small change I’ve made, opening to new friends, new circles of community. I spent the afternoon chatting with a variety of people, talking about art, color, and changes in this city so many of us adore. Running into a woman I had briefly dated, I was grateful for the sweet ease of our interaction. I bought a small painting of two blackbirds on a wire, loving the quirkiness of it, the way they are looking at each other. Coming home, I wanted nothing more than to be up in my own studio. A profound subtle shift happened while I was at Hunter's Point. For the last few years I’ve been working on claiming myself to be an artist, on inhabititng that fully. For a variety of reasons, this has been a struggle. Today, strolling thru the warren of studios, I could fully imagine myself among those showing their work. The moniker of artist rolled easily off my lips among the various introductions that were made. What a change! We’ll see what comes of it.